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^n Illustrated JffontKl'i^ 



■ ' ■■■• t- \ 

Vol. III. - - I 

JANUARY TO JUNE ■ - t * '^ 

XonC)on : 



1892 -feUf:^. 




By Raymund Allen. 

STORM of wind and rain 
had come on suddenly, and, as 
there were no cabs to be got 
near at hand, there was no- 
thing for it but to set out on 
foot. I was going to dine 
with old Colonel Bradshaw, whose acquaint- 
ance I had lately made at the local chess 
club, and I was due at half-past seven, so I 
pulled my coat collar up to my ears and 
started off through the muddy streets. 
Several times in the course of my exceed- 
ingly unpleasant walk the foulness of the 
weather had given rise to a wish on my 
part that I had invented some excuse for 
staying by my own comfortable fireside. 
Once arrived, however, the cheery welcome 
of the old soldier quickly dispersed all 
regrets for my own hearth, and restored me 
to the good-humour necessary for the proper 
appreciation of a good dinner. 

Colonel Bradshaw had served in India 
during the time of the Mutiny, had received 
a severe wound in the left leg, which still 
caused him to limp, and had led to his 
comparatively early retirement from the 
service. He had returned to England on 
his retirement, and had lately leased a snug 
little house in our town, which he 
apparently intended to occupy for the rest 

of his days in the quiet enjoyment of peace- 
ful obscurity. I had made his acquaintance, 
as I have said, at the chess club, where, I 
believe, he used to spend most of his 
evenings, and where he had earned the 
reputation of a decidedly strong player. I 
had not as yet encoixntered him over the 

In his note of invitation, the Colonel had 
asked me to bring my men with me, as he 
had left his own at the club-rooms, on the 
occasion of a match for which they had been 
called into requisition, and it was accordingly 
my set of chessmen which we now arranged 
in the customary order of battle. To my 
annoyance, however, I found that one of 
my black knights was missing, and I cast my 
eyes round the room in search of some article 
on which we might for the occasion confer 
the spurs of knighthood, On the Colonel's 
writing-table, acting as a paperweight, I 
saw the very object we were in want of — a 
black knight. Not of the orthodox Staun- 
ton pattern, it is true, nor indeed were its 
grotesquely protruding eyes and maliciously 
grinning mouth characteristic of any pattern 
with which I was familiar ; but still it was 
undeniably a black chess knight, and would 
serve our turn admirably. My host hesi- 
tated, and even seemed the least trifle 



annoyed when I suggested the expediency 
of pressing it into the service. The beast 
certainly looked incongruous among my 
Stauntons, but something in his human 
eyes and lifelike expression of malicious 
humour caught my fancy, and I asked to 
be allowed to play with the black men. 
The Colonel acquiesced, but declined the 
privilege of first move, which ' usually goes 
with the white. We accordingly drew for 
the move, and I won it. 

Led partly by my fancy for the black 
knight, and partly " to take my opponent 
out of the books," I began the game by 
making the paperweight first take the 
field. As I did so, I fancied my host 
gave a little start, and, as he certainly 
appeared to be annoyed at my irregular 
opening, T was sorry that I had begun 
by a move which I supposed he ob- 
jected to on the ground that it generally 
leads to a close game. He said nothing, 
however, and the game was continued for 
some time by very ordinary moves on both 
sides, and presently I began to be absorbed 
in the study of the position and in the 
endeavour to gauge the strength of my 
opponent. For a time he seemed to play 
a decidedly good game, and, in spite of con- 
tinuous concentration on my part, to main- 
tain somesuperiority of position. Presently, 
however, he embarked on a series of moves 
which appeared to give me a decisive 

advantage and to have no more rational 
object than the capture of my swarthy 
champion at a ruinous sacrifice of his own 
pieces. This eccentric proceeding puzzled 
me, and, added to his previous hesitation 
about using the substitute, excited my 
curiosity. So, relinquishing the object of 
winning the game in the ordinary way, I 
devoted all my skill to the defence of my 
king's knight, as though it were a piece 
coijfee with which I was pledged to give 
checkmate. Rooks were sacrificed for 
bishops, and bishops exchanged for inoffen- 
sive pawns, while the kings stood disre- 
garded on their knights' squares, and the 
fight raged hotly round the black knight, 
who seemed to bear a charmed life and sprang 
nimbly about the board, always evading 
my opponent's headlong attempts at his 
capture. At last, in desperation, he offered 
the bribe of the white queen, but I 
obstinately refused to part at any price 
with my dusky cavalier, and a few moves 
later brought the game to a successful end 
with a smothered mate, the very bone of 
contention inflict ng the deathblow. 

The Colonel leaned back in his armchair 
and for some minutes continued silently to 
blow out thick clouds of smoke. After a 
pause, during which his brow was com- 
pressed into a frown, as though by the con- 
templation of some bewildering enigma to 
which he could not find the clue, he broke 




silence with the remark, that " there were 
more things in heaven and earth — " and 
then again relapsed into silence in apparent 
forgetfulness of my presence. As he made 
no further remark for some time, I rose 
from my seat, and, muttering something 
about its being late, prepared to take my 
leave. "Wait a moment ; look here," said 
the Colonel, rising to stop me with the air 
of a man who has formed a sudden deter- 
mination, and pointing to the board, " I 
daresay you wonder what on earth I was 
driving at in that game ? " 

"Well, you appeared to me to be driv- 
ing mainly at that outlandish black knight 
instead of at my king," I replied. 

'"Exactly, and perhaps I ought to apolo- 
gise for having spoilt the game by giving 
way to an absurd fancy ; but if you will sit 
down again and refill yovir pipe, I will tell 
you a curious experience which I had many 
years ago in India, and which you will 
perhaps admit as an excuse for my eccentric 
play to-night." 

" Nothing I should like better," I replied; 
" for I confess you have considerably roused 
my curiosity." 

" Well then, I think I can partly satisfy 
it ;" and my host threw a fresh log on to 
the fire, stretched himself in the chair, and 

" I don't know whether you take any 
interest in such subjects as hypnotism, 
thought-reading, and so on ; but, if you 
do, you may perhaps be able to form some 
scientific theory to explain my story. 
Personally I used to be very unbelieving in 
such matters, but my scepticism was con- 
siderably modified by the adventure I am 
going to tell you of. Very well, then. On 
one occasion in India, many years ago, I 
had got leave from my regiment for a few 
weeks in order to join a shooting expedition 
which had been got up by one of my greatest 
friends, a man many years older than I 
was then, and of much higher rank in the 
service. When, however, I arrived at our 
appointed meeting-place, I found my friend, 
the General, preparing for a more warlike 
excursion against a marauding tribe who 
had lately been extending their cattle raids 
across our frontier. The shooting expedi- 
tion having fallen through, I readily 
accepted the General's suggestion that I 
should accompany his force as a volunteer, 
and see some sport of a more exciting kind. 
A common risk, even when comparatively 
insignificant, inclines men to readier 
cordiality towards the companions they may 

shortly be going to lose, and I was soon on 
excellent terms with the other officers, who 
were as pleasant a set of fellows as I have 
ever met. Nothing of any interest hap- 
pened till we were across the enemy's 
frontier and the force was encamped one 
night under a brilliant moon on a hill over- 
looking a thickly wooded valley. 

" I was strolling round camp with a 
cigar, when I was joined by one of the 
younger officers, who, not being on duty, was 
refreshing himself after the day's march in 
the same way, and we continued our walk 
together. We stopped to admire the view 
at a point where we could look down on the 
valley, and presently we fell into an argu- 
ment as to whether a bright surface which 
caught the moonlight in a glade of the 
wood below was water or a smooth slab of 
rock. It happened that my companion 
particularly prided himself on the keenness 
of his sight, and a few days before had won 
a small bet from me on the subject. I, too, 
thought that I had good eyes, and, feeling 
sure that he was wrong in his contention 
that he could detect a gentle ripple on the 
surface in dispute, I offered him a second 
bet that it was rock, and proposed to settle 
the question by myself going down to the 
spot. He accepted my bet, and, as he was 
not at liberty to leave the camp, I gaily 
started down the hill alone, telling him 
with a laugh to have the stakes ready by 
the time I returned, and never for a moment 
supposing that I was running any risk in 
the affair. 

"I rapidly made my way down over the 
short grass of the hillside, and, marking 
the direction of the spot in question, soon 
plunged into the darkness of the wood, the 
cavernous depth of whose shadows was 
enhanced by an occasional glint of moon- 
shine. I am not naturally superstitious. I 
have no particular aversion to midnight 
graveyards or haunted rooms, but I must 
confess I felt an uncommonly disagreeable 
feeling of something like dread when I got 
inside that wood. Everything was abso- 
lutely dead and still. Not the faintest 
rustle of a leaf, not the crick of an insect, 
nor murmur of water, but dense and awful 
blackness ! It excited my nerves. I almost 
imagined I saw black shapes moving under 
the trees, though it was quite impossible 
that anything not luminous should show 
against such an inky background. I felt 
my way cautiously, stopping constantly to 
hear if anything was moving near me. 
What cracks the twigs under my feet gave! 



What a resounding crash reverberated in 
the gloomy shades when my foot set a loose 
stone rolling ! My nerve was gone, and I 
felt horribly uncomfortable. I would gladly 
have paid my bet to be back again in camp, 
but I was bound to go through with my 
search now that I had once begun, and I 
should make myself a butt for the wit of 
the regiment if I turned back half-way to 
confess myself scared by the dark. After 
a longer time and with more difficulty than 
I had anticipated, I reached the slab of 
rock, for such it proved to be. Here I was 
clear of the trees, and I stood for a few 
moments in the bright moonlight, so that 
my friend above, who I knew would be 
watching for me to emerge from the 
shadow, might see that it was not water on 
which I stood. Then I turned, and struck 
out energetically for the camp. 

" I had not, however, pushed my way 
far through the undergrowth when I was 
tripped up sviddenly by what I at first took 
to be some stout creeper or protruding 
root. I fell forward on my hands, and had 


not time to get on my feet again before I 
learnt that it was no accident which had 
overthrown me. Before I had time to offer 
the least resistance, or even to titter a shout 
for help, I felt myself seized round the neck 
by a grip like a vice ; a few seconds more, 
and I was gagged, bound, and carried off 
through the forest, quickly, but in silence. 
As soon as subsiding astonishment left 
room for any other sensation, I felt a 
paroxysm of rage, as well against my own 
folly in running into such a trap as against 
my sudden assailants, whom I cursed none 
the less heartily for my inability to utter a 
sovind. The futility of passion under the 
circumstances gradually subdued me, if not 
to philosophic fortitude, at least to suffi- 
cient calmness to speculate on my probable 
fate and on the chances of escape. For 
some time I seemed to be borne down hill 
and over irregular ground ; then we must 
have emerged from the jungle on to more 
even ground, for the pace became quicker 
and smoother. This may have gone on 
for some twenty minutes or half an hour, 
and then my captors came to a 
halt. I was set on my feet, and 
my eyes and mouth released from 
their bandages. This change of 
condition did not, however, con- 
duce to my comfort or reassurance ; 
for, while an armed native on each 
-ide held me firmly by my pinioned 
cirms, a third presented a huge 
horse-pistol at my head at a 
yard's distance. For a few 
instants I endured an agony 
of suspense. I involuntarily 
shut my eyes, and waited for 
the bullet to crash through 
my brain. 

" I have met many men 
who have at some time or 
other looked death pretty 
closely in the face, and you 
must often have heard it said 
that a man's mind at such 
moments reviews in a flash 
long periods of past time 
with an almost supernatural 
vividness of perception, but I 
didn't feel anything of this. 
I only felt that I might be 
dead in another second, and 
then, with a determination to 
' die game,' which was rather 
an animal sensation than an 
articulate thought, I set my 
teeth and opened my eyes to 



meet those of my enemy. The pistol was still 
directed at my head, and the grim Indian 
still kept his finger on the trigger. I faced 
him defiantly, and, as though unwilling to 
change a dramatic situation 
which interested him, he still 


kept the same menacing posture, while I 
longed for the flash and the end before 
my nerve should fail. 

*' At last he spoke. He spoke a dialect 
which I only imperfectly followed, but I 
understood him to say that if I tried to 
escape I should be shot on the spot. I felt 
no confidence that I was not being reserved 
for a more horrible death, but the instinct 
of self-preservation kept me passive. When 
at last the pistol was lowered, and I no 
longer stood in momentary expectation of 
death, I looked round me and perceived 
that I was in the middle of a group of some 
half dozen Indians, and as many horses. 
On to one of these latter I was lifted, and 
secured in the saddle by leathern thongs, 
my captors not choosing to give me the 

chance of escape by leaving me the manage- 
ment of my horse. 

"After about an hour's hard riding, during 
which the rapid motion and the blowing of 
the cool night air on my 
face and hands acted as 
a sedative on my racked 
nerves, we reached the 
encampment of the 
hostile tribe against 
which the expedition 
had been sent out. 
And now came the 
strangest part of my 
adventures ; the part 
which bears on my ec- 
centric play to-night." 
Here Colonel Brad- 
shaw paused to stir the 
smouldering log in the 
grate to a bright blaze, 
and then, staring in- 
to the fire and keep- 
ing the poker in his 
hands as he leaned 
forward in his chair, 
went on with his 
story, more slowly 
at first, but with 
growing animation 
of voice, which gra 
dually rose to the 
eloquence of excite- 
ment as he seemed 
to forget his imme- 
diate surroundings, 
and to live once again 
through the distant 
scene he was de- 

"The human 
brain,'' he resumed, " is incapable, I im- 
agine, of continuing to experience any 
intense sensation for very long. It reaches 
the maximum tension, and then one set 
of perceptive faculties becomes deadened. 
The previous incidents of the night had 
exhausted my capacity for fear, and, 
as I was led before the chief of the 
tribe to hear his decree concerning me, 
I awaited the decision with indifference. 
I was keenly alive to every detail of my 
surroundings, and noted the expression of 
every face, and yet I seemed somehow to 
have lost my own individuality ; to be 
watching myself as an actor in a scene with 
which I had no personal concern, but only 
looked at from some outside point of view. 
The moon was now hidden behind a hill, 




but some twenty torches lit up the spot 
with their lurid flames. The party that 
had caught me had obviously been sent out 
to reconnoitre the movements of the English 
force, and the chief had been beguiling the 
time of their absence with nothing less than 
a game of chess. 

" I was the less surprised at the nature of 
his pastime, as I knew that the game was 
widely spread in India, and had played it 
with natives myself, and knew in what 
points their game differed from our Euro- 
pean rules. The chief's antagonist was a 
man whom I imagined, though I can't say 
exactly Avhat suggested the idea, to be the 
priest of the tribe. He w^as shorter than 
the others, but his face suggested an extra- 
ordinarily active mind, and this, combined 
with his regularity of feature, would have 
made him a strikingly handsome type if it 
had not been for the fearful malignity of 
his expression. I wish I could give you 
some faint idea of that man's face, for it 
was the most terribly sinister face I have 
ever seen. His back had been turned to- 
wards me at first, but from the moment 
when I met the scrutiny of his black deep- 
set eyes, which glared on me with a look of 
mocking, triumphant devilry that must 
have been borrowed from the fiend below, 
I was fascinated, and could see nothing but 
that one diabolical face. If there is any 
truth in the Eastern belief in possession by 
evil spirits, a demon looked through that 
man's eyes. A shiver ran through my frame 
as I met his gaze, and I felt that he Avas 
exercising some subtle influence over me, 
against which every fibre of my body, every 
atom of my being, stiffened in revolt. I 
felt that unless I exerted the whole of my 
will-force in resistance to the dread spell he 
was casting over me, I should lose myself in 
his. identity, and become the creature of his 
wicked will. It was not physical fear that 
I felt. I had passed through that stage, 
and I believe I should have met death with 
firmness, but I felt that my whole per- 
sonality was at the death-grapple with that 
fearful being — a mysterious deadly struggle, 
fought in neither act nor word, with the 
powers of darkness, impersonated. 

" While all this was going on in me, the 
chief must have been listening to an 
account of my capture, though I was un- 
conscious of any words being spoken near 
me, till the priest turned from me to him, 
and, pointing to the chessboard Avhich 
stood on a sort of low table, made a sugges- 
tion which at first I did not fully grasp. 

Its meaning was soon made clear to me, 
however. I had some knowledge of their 
dialect, and most expressive pantomime 
conveyed the rest. I was to play a game 
of chess with the chief ; the stakes, my life 
against a safe conduct to the English lines. 
Never before had I encountered so terrible 
an opponent, and never in the history of 
the royal game had so fateful an issue been 
fought out on the battlefield of the sixty- 
four squares. I took my seat opposite the 
chief, and the torchbearers formed a wide 
ring round the table, looking, as the danc- 
ing torch-flames shone on their dark faces 
and limbs, like so many stalwart statues of 
bronze. Within the circle, and a little 
behind the king, stood the evil priest, 
motionless, with folded arms, including me 
and the board in his keen, hateful gaze. I 
knew exactly where he stood before I looked 
at him, and again I felt the same dread 
fascination working on me that I had felt 
when I first set eyes on him. The chief 
moved the pieces indeed, but I was con- 
scious in some subtle way that it was 
against his attendant's mind that I was 
pitted — that the former was scarcely more 
than an aiitomaton under the thraldom of 
the priest's marvellous will, and the game 
itself only a sort of emblem or shadow of 
our inward contest of mind and per- 

" I played appropriately enough, with the 
white pieces, and the game itself might 
have afforded an expressive symbol of the 
antagonism of the light and dark races, of 
the clear, bright West with the mystic, 
sombre East, but the thought did not occur 
to me then. To me it was rather a struggle 
betweeu the intangible powers of good 
and evil — a realisation in my own self of 
the etfernal struggle of the universe. We 
played very slowly, and in absolvxte silence. 
No word was spoken nor sign made when 
either king was checked. Hour after hour 
the priest kept the same motionless posture 
behind his chief, who played with the same 
monotonously mechanical movement of the 
hand, the same vacant mesmerised expres- 
sion on his face. Hour passed after hour, 
unmeasured by any clock, unmarked by 
any change except in the position of the 
pieces on the board. The chief, or rather 
the priest, played well ; and, though time 
after time I seemed on the point of gaining 
a decisive advantage, some unforeseen move 
always deferred my victory. 

" One piece in particular repeatedly 
thwarted my combinations. Again and 



again it constituted the weak point in a 
series of moves which should have brought 
me victory. Again and again, when, after 
straining every faculty of my brain, I made 
my move and raised my eyes to watch in 
the priest's face the effect of a stroke to 
which I saw no reply, a faint mocking smile 
would curl for a moment his cruel lips, and 
the black knight would be moved once 
more, threatening dangers which I had 
overlooked, and dashing my premature 
hopes to the ground. It was as though 
some secret link existed between that parti- 
cular bit of bone and the grim, ghoulish 
spectator of our game. Piece after piece was 
taken from the board and dropped on the 
sand at our feet ; the ranks of pawns grew 
thinner and thinner, but still that one black 
knight, now the only piece left to my 
antagonist, sprang over the board, evading 
my deep-laid plans for his capture. The 
opening was long passed, the wavering for- 
tune of the middle-game had waned with 
the long hours to an 
end-game. The in- 
exorable moment which 
must decide my fate 
was close upon me. 

"I turned for a 
moment from the board 
to ease the throbbing 
fever of my brain. A 
black veil of formless 
mist hid the stars and 
gave back the earth's 
heat, till I gasped for 
breath, and drops of 
nervous sweat ran 
down my forehead. 
There was a stifling 
oppression in the 
still air, as in the 
minutes before ths 
first Jightaiing 
flash darts 
fro m t h c 
charged thun- 
der-cloud. The 
chief moved, 
»'and I spurred 
my flagging 
energies once 
more to the 
study of the 
game. Sud- 
denly I seemed 
to be gifted 
with extraor- 
dinary powers 

'his face chan(;ed with a hideous contortion." 

of calculation. I shut my eyes, and saw 
mentally the position change through every 
possible variation like the moving pattern 
of a kaleidoscope. I could have announced 
a mate. I knew, to the exclusion of any 
doubt, that I must win. I made my move, 
and then, concentrating every particle of 
the hatred and loathing with which the 
diabolical priest had inspired nae into one 
flashing look of defiance, I tried to hurl 
from me the cursed influence of his malig- 
nant spirit and to crush it into subjection to 
mine. His face changed with a hideous con- 
tortion of defeated evil purpose, and then 
the whole devil in him rose to one supreme 
effort in answer to mine. He passed his 
hand lightly across his eyes, and leaning 
over his chief scored his forehead with a 
malevolent frown, the glare of his glittering 
eyes seeming to pierce to the brain of the 
head they nearly touched. The new spell 
began to work on the chief. An uneasy, 
puzzled look came into his face, and this 
time it was with an 
uncertain, vacillating 
movement that he 
raised his hand to play. 
Again I looked at the 
priest. His expression 
was more bitterly mock- 
ing and more exultingly 
fiendish than ever as he 
directed my glance by a 
movement of his own 
to the hand which 
hovered over the board. 
His treacherous design 
was transmitted in a 
flash to my mind by 
some unexplained in- 
teraction of our brains. 
An illegal move 
with the black 
knight, in defiance 
of the rules of the 
game, was to 
snatch the 
xi, nearly Avon vie - 
* ' tory from my 
grasp. I saw 
the fatal square 
on which the 
piece would be 
placed, and I 
felt that if it 
reached it I 
was lost. There 
were no spec- 
tators to whom 



I could appeal against the glaring illegality, 
unconscious, no doubt, on the part of the 
hypnotised chief, and I should never be able 
to convince him afterwards of having won 
unfairly. I must prevent the move. 

" The struggle entered on the final phase. 
I had shaken off the priest's mesmeric in- 
fluence over my own will ; now I must 
wrest the chiefs will from the same thraldom 
by the exertion of a counter influence. It 
was the critical moment, the culminating 
point of conflict which must at last be de- 
cisive. The chiefs hand raised the black 
knight slowly from the board, and as it began 
more slowly still to descend, I exerted all 
my power of will in one burst of straining 
endeavour to compel another move than the 
false one the priest intended. Every nerve 
in my body seemed strung to cracking. The 
wonderful sensation of my individuality, of 
the intangible essence which constitutes 
self, wrestling grimly for life with the demon- 
possessed priest, became intensified till my 
brain reeled. The chiefs hand came slowly, 
slowly down ; wavered as though uncertain 
on which square to place the piece. One 
final effort of will exhausted my faculties of 
brain and volition. 

" The ordeal was over ; light had 
triumphed over darkness as day had risen 
on night. I knew the priest's influence had 
been overcome, his spell cast off, without 
the evidence of the chess-board ; I saw him 
fall backwards on the ground, every 
muscle of his body twisted in horrible con- 
tortion, as though some invisible power of 
the air were wreaking its vengeance on his 
ghastly, spasm-shaken form. The gruesome 

sight ended quickly, the violence of the 
seizure was resistless ; the muscles relaxed, 
the limbs stretched out, and he lay a 

*' How I parted from my strange enter- 
tainers I can't tell you. I only know that 
the chief honourably fulfilled his pledge, and 
that, as I galloped away with a guide for 
the English camp, over the fair, green earth, 
the woods and fields dancing to the breeze 
in the sunlight, the bright clouds carrying 
my thoughts to the depths of the blue ex- 
panse they sailed in, I experienced a new 
sensation of keen, ecstatic enjoyment of life 
for its own sake. All nature seemed to 
have a fuller, better meaning to me than 
ever before, to be the physical expression of 
boundless power and happiness moving 
with all-inclusive purpose towards some 
eternal end, and I myself was filled with a 
thrilling vitality in the consciousness of being 
a part of the joyous whole.'' 

The Colonel made along pause, and then, 
with a reluctant sigh, as he dismissed the 
wide expanse of glorious landscape which 
lay stretched out before his mind's eye, to 
return to the commonplace of his immediate 
surroundings, he picked up the paperweight 
from the board, and replacing it on the 
writing-table, concluded : — 

" Later in the day, and after my return 
to the English camp, I found this little 
fellow in a pocket of my coat. Whether I 
had put it there myself or how it got there 
I don't know, and to what extent the inci- 
dents of the night were coloured by my 
own excited imagination is a chess problem 
I must leave to your own solution." 



Illustrated Interviews. 

No. X.— MR. F. C. BURNAND. 

HIS is not the first time that 
a resident of The Boltons, 
Kensington, has "spoken'' in 
these pages. On the last 
occasion of a visit to what 
Madame Albani's httle boy 
happily refers to as " our village," it was to 
take tea and notes with the famous singer. 
About a dozen doors from Madame Albani's 
the figures 27 are painted on the portals of 
a large white house. No. 27 stands for the 
London residence of Mr. F. C. Burnand — 
Ramsgate, by the bye, is his country abode. 
A veritable volume of correspondence 
passed between Mr. Burnand and myself 
before we met — a budget of humour which 
prepared me for the chat which was to 

Fi-oni a Pholo. 

follow. It was all through the influenza. 
It claimed both interviewer and inter- 
viewed for its own, fortunately only for a 
limited period. But even influenza cannot 
overcome humorous instincts. Mr. Bur- 
nand cracked jokes and forwarded them 
under cover to me, even whilst he iay in 

bed — he couldn't help it — until at last he 
wound up the series of fun a la influenza, 
by hoping that I was, like Charles II. when 
he came back to the throne once again, 
" thoroughly restored ! " Then he made the 
final appointment. He wrote — " ' How ' — 
that's your affair ; ' When ' — Thursday next, 
12 o'clock ; 'Where' — 27, The Boltons." 

Thursday, 12 noon. Scene — 27, The Bol- 
tons. I am discovered. Enter Mr. Burnand, 
followed by the household pet — a remark- 
ably fine creature with a noteworthy tale ; 
but I am requested to take no notice of the 
cat's tail, as it is the history of its owner — 
that is, of course, Mr. Burnand — I am there 
to learn. Mr. Burnand wears a lounge 
jacket and the familiar tie loosely hanging 
from the neck. 
He is of medium 
height, and strong 
ly built. His hair 
is grey, and care- 
fully parted down 
the middle. His 
face is ruddy and 
his expression 
happy, with an 
irresistible twinkle 
about the eyes. 
For his appear- 
ance in past years 
we must refer our 
readers to the por- 
traits of celebrities 
on another page. He is a merry 
man and cheerful companion — and 
as a teller of anecdote is probably 
unequalled, for he acts every one 
of his stories. Cigars, and wax 
vestas, — and a journalistic bailiff" 
commences to take his customary 
inventory of the contents of the 

The entrance hall contains 
Chinese vases filled with palms. Over the 
fireplace is a very early oil painting of Mr. 
Burnand, with note-book and pencil in 
hand, by the late J. Prescott Knight, once 
secretary of the Royal Academy. Some of 
the sketches are particularly good. Just by 
the door is a pen-and-ink sketch on a sheet 



of writing paper by Sir 
John Gilbert, dated 
May, 1877. It is a 
Cavalier, "treated in a 
cavalier manner." An- 
other clever drawing by 
the same artist, done a 
year later, represents an 
inn of the medieval era, 
with the landlord rush- 
ing out with the bill, 
at his heels a dog " of 
the Middle Ages" 
barking, and a knight 
galloping away on 
horseback, with his 
fingers extended, and 
very rudely placed in 
close proximity to his 
nose. It is called "Tick." 
Sir John Gilbert writes 
underneath, "The 
artist, anxious to serve 
and please his employer, 
has given to the subject 
suggested the grandest 
and most thoughtful 
care. In truth, it is one 
which calls for the 
deepest consideration, 
principally because 
of the novelty of the 
subject : never be- 
fore has a gallant 
■ knight been so de- 
picted. Let it not 
be seen. Hide it, 
destroy it — the de- 
signer is ashamed of 
it." The explanation 
of it all is written on 
the picture by its pre- 
sent owner : " Sent 
to me by Sir John 
Gilbert, R.A., in con- 
sequence of my 
Punch notice about 
his ' Ready ' picture 
in Royal Academy, 
1878, wherein I sug- 
gested that his next 
subject ■ should be 
Tick. — Y, C. B." 
Just then a wire- 
haired fox - terrier, 
the property of one 
of Mr. Burnand's 
sons, rushes up as a 
reminder to note a 

From a Sketch h;/} 


couple of canine etch- 
ings by Harding Cox. 

Nearer in the direc- 
tion of the conservatory 
is a black and white of 
Miss Dorothy Dene, by 
Sir Frederic Leighton, 
a delightful little group 
of Dutch children by 
G. H. Boughton, and 
hard by a couple of 
pictures, reproduced in 
these pages. They are 
reminiscences of Mr. 
Burnand's famous bur- 
lesque of Douglas Jer- 
rold's nautical drama, 
" Black-Eyed Susan," 
which had a run of 
over four hundred con- 
secutive nights at the 
Royalty Theatre. The 
first is by Fred Walker, 
and shows Fred C. 
Dewar as Captain 
Crosstree^ and Miss 
Patty Oliver as the 
dark-eyed Susan (see 
next page). Their sig- 
natures are appended. 
In this burlesque a 
low - comedy actor, 
who was a marvel- 
lously clever dancer 
also, named Danvers, 
played Dame Hatley . 
His feet moved at 
such a rate that when 
John Tenniel went 
to see it he chroni- 
cled the effect of the 
dancer's feet, as seen 
in the other drawing, 
writing below it — 

Deir. 15, 1875. 
Dear F. C. B , 
The sketch you see 
Of Dame Hat ley 
1 11 your comcdie 
Burlesq — u — e 
Was sketched by me 
From memorie. 
J. T. 

The drawing-room 
is a quiet, pretty 
apartment, lighted 
by a huge chandelier 
suspended in the 





centre. The walls are of cream and amber. 
The mirrors are many, some in white 
enamelled frames, others in crimson plush. 
The windows are draped with lace and rose- 
coloured curtains. 
The portraits are 
not numerous — 
these pictorial re- 
minders of friends 
are for the most 
part at Ramsgate 
— but one notes 
an excellent like- 
ness of the Pope, 
an early cabinet of 
the owner of the 
house, and another 
of Mr. Toole as 
Pa IV Claudian. 
On a table is a 
great album con- 
taining reproduc- 
tions of some of 
the works of art in 
the collection of 
Theophilus Bur- 
nand, Esq., uncle 
ofMr.F.C. There 
are some grand From a Photo. hir. 

examples by Goodall, Cooper, Cooke, 

Horsley, Sant, &c., including Roberts' great 

work of the " Interior of Milan Cathedral." 

The dining-room looks on the garden, 


\_EllioK & Fry. 



from a Photo. i»/] 


where the trees are just shooting out their 
first welcome to the return of spring. The 
walls of this room are of a Salm pale blue. 
Silver cups and tankards are set out on the 

oaken sideboard, 
flowers — the tiny 
narcissus and 
yellow lily — fill 
the vases on the 
mantelpiece, and 
the " latest out " 
in books are lying 
about. Over one 
of the bookcases 
are a trio of 
sketches by Lin- 
ley Sambourne. 
the centre of 
which shows Mr. 
Burnand smok- 
ing a cigar with 
Bismarck, and 
now publicly seen 
for the first time. 
Mr. Bvirnand 
went to Aix-la- 
Chapelle, and this 
was sent to him 
by Mr. S a m - 
bourne in remembrance thereof. As a 
matter of fact, the two B's never met, but 
for all that the picture is a very "happy 
thought." An etching by Professor Hubert 

[FlhaltA J-rii 

Skrtcft iy] 


[Linleij Sambourne. 



Herkomer of Mr. J. S. Forbes, the chairman 
of the L. C. and D. Raihvay, hangs on the 
walls, and considerable space is taken up by 
the same accomplish- 
ed artist's striking 
life-size picture of Mr. 
F. C. Burnand. Just 
beneath this is a 
crayon drawing of 
Mr. Burnan d's 
mother at the age of 
fifteen, which we here 
reproduce. Upstairs 
in Mr. Burnand's 
dressing-room is a 
delightful painting of 
the same lady by A. 
E. Chalon, R.A., 
done in 1834. T could 
not help lookingupon 
this room and the 
adjoining bedroom 
with some consider- 
able curiosity. Mr. 
Burnand has only 
been an occupant of 
the house for a few 
months. This room 
was once occupied 
by Miss Elliott, who 
afterwards became 
Mrs. Osborne. 

The study is to the left of the entrance 
hall, and is made bright by a small glass 
conservatory in 
the windoAv. The 
writing table is a 
large one. The 
letter - clips are 
suggestive. One 
takes the shape of 
a huge silver "B," 
the other is a silver 
anchor twined 
round with golden 
ropes. On this 
table a double row 
of books are set 
out — the back 
row comprising a 
dozen or more 
standard diction- 

The chair occu- 
pied by Mr. Bur- 
nand when writ- 
ing is of black 
ebony — when 
readmg, a dis- From a puoto. />?/] 


tinctly comfortable-looking brown leather 
easy-chair. The little wooden stage which 
stands close by is five-and-twenty years 
old. It is an exact 
model of the stage 
of the old Royalty, 
with only one trap- 
door, which was used 
for everything, from 
the unexpected ap- 
pearance of a sprite 
to the sudden dis- 
appearance of a ban - 
quet. To - day Mr. 
Burnand works out 
all his situations on 
it when play-writing. 
He uses figures for 
his characters, just 
as Mr. W. S. Gilbert 
does, and, in the old 
* New Royalty ' days, 
Patty Oliver would 
often have these 
wooden characters 
dressed up in diminu- 
tive silks and satins. 
I counted a dozen 
pipes on the mantel- 
board — from a small 
meerschaum to a 
weighty cherrywood. All round the apart- 
ment are bookshelves, with convenient cup- 
boards below. 


[Elliott & Fry. 



From a Photo, biij mr. bur nan 

" Ah ! that snuff-box,'' exclaimed Mr. 
Burnand, as I took up an old gold Empire 
box, on the lid of which was a bouquet of 
diamonds. " It was a legacy. It belonged 
to an old friend on whom I was continually 
playing practical jokes when stopping at 
his house. He had a habit of always 
keeping the box by the side of him at the 
head of the table, to which his hand used 
to wander in search of it continually. On 
the occasion of a dinner party, I hid the 
box. Dinner proceeded. My host's fingers 
wandered to the customary place — he was 
in a great fidget — the box not there, of 
course. He appealed to us, but we knew 
nothing about it. He left the room in 
search of it — it was nowhere to be found. 
Just as I was leaving I drew him on one 
side and said quietly, ' My dear old chap, 
just a little testimonial I want to present to 
you ! ' and put the snuff-box in his hand. 

" ' Ah ! ' he chuckled, ' you seem very 
fond of that snuff-box.' He must have gone 
to his room that very night and- made an 
addition to his will, for many years passed 
before he died, and — he left me the snuff- 

A set of boxing-gloves and single-sticks 
are picturesquely arranged on one of th( 
book -cases. Mr. Burnand is as fond to-da;; 
of a fencing bout or a little " play " witl 
the gloves as he was when he was at Eton, 
where he was taught to become useful in 
this direction by a Corporal Munday. 

Mr. Burnand began life as a baby just 
seven months before Her Gracious Majesty 
ascended the throne. The latter event was 
in June, 1837, and the former in November, 
1836. Mr. Burnand claims to be a 
"cockney" — he was born somewhere within 
the sound of Bow Bells, and was christened 

Francis Cowley. He was sent to 
school when barely seven years 
old, and at his third school, at 
Paul's Cray, Kent, he shared a 
bed-room with a schoolfellow who 
had a marvellous memory, and 
when lights went out they would 
lie awake together whilst the 
youth would whisper to little 
Francis plot after plot of Scott's 
novels. Francis used to dramatise 
them and act them. His first real 
dramatic effort, however, was at 

" I went to Eton," said Mr. 

Burnand, " soon after I was 

thirteen. I did my fagging very 

well. Fagging ! an excellent 

thing. It cannot fail to give a boy a vast 

amount of respect for his superiors. I well 




remember the pain 1 felt when 1 had to 
expend five shilhngs in the purchase of 
my own birch. I wish I had kept that 
birch — it would have been an excellent 
reminder. T lived in the Rev. Gifford Cooks- 
ley's house. He was a very funny fellow. 
He was wonderfully kind-hearted — so kind- 
hearted, indeed, that if 
he had a fallow birched 
he would not see him 
for a couple of days 
afterwards. Cooksley 
was very fond of thea- 
tricals. He often took a 
party of us — some seven 
or eight — to the old 
Windsor theatre. He 
paid all expenses — seats 
in the dress circle, and 
a supper afterwards. 
After the performance 
we would go on the 
stage and chat with the 
actors. If there were 
any children playing he 
always had sixpence for 
them. Well, I wrote a 
play called * Guy Fawkes 
Day,' and it was pro- 
duced in Gifford Cooks- 
ley's own room. This 
same piece was also 
played for one night 
only at the Worthing 
Theatre soon afterwards. 
The manager was to 
have a benefit, and he 
called on a relati\-e of 
mine asking for his 
patronage. The con- 
dition of granting it was 
that ' Guy Fawkes Day " 
should be produced. It 

"I went to Trinity 
College, Cambridge, 
when I was 17, and remained there until 
20, when I took my B.A. degree." 

I shall probably be correct in saying that 
though studies were not forgotten acting- 
was ever remembered. It was there that 
he started the famous Amateur Dramatic 
Company, of which he is still a member, 
and only recently the Honourable James 
Lowther set a movement on foot for the paint- 
ing of the founder's portrait, a commission 
having been given to Mr. C. M. Newton, 
the artist. At Cambridge Mr. Burnand 
wrote some of the brightest and merriest 

farces ever conceived. They had the true 
ring of humour about them. He hands 
me a little volume. It contains some of the 
many pieces he wrote whilst at Cambridge. 
" Villikins and his Dinah " was the first, in 
which the author played Gruffin ; another 
was "In for a Holyday," in which Mr. 
Burnand played Mr. 
Giistavus Popple^ a 
young gentleman re- 
tained between ten and 
three by Government ; 
" Romance under Diffi- 
culties,'' in which the 
author appeared as 
Timothy Diggles ; and 
" Alonzo the Brave, or 
Faust and the Fayre 
Imogene," in which Mr. 
Burnand acted a pro- 
minent part. Through 
this little volume are 
scattered criticisms in 
ink and pencil. Here 
are some suggestive re- 
marks made on the fly- 
leaf respecting " St. 
George and the Dragon ! 
An historical - comical - 
but-still- slightly-mythi- 
cal burlesque " : 

" Wednesday the 20th 
February, 1855." 

"First night of the 
burlesque. Alf Thomp- 
son obliged to throw up 
the King on account of 
being ordered off in- 
stanter to the Crimea on 
the 19th. (3 p.m.) 
Thornhill took the part. 
The first act, with the 
exception of St. George's 
speech, song — Tuftee's 
song — and the last 
chorus, hung fire ; Kelly 
utterly forgetting his part, and the prompter 
being among the chorus he (Kelly) was 
a ' gone coon.' Act II. Zara took, but 
the duets between Zara and Dragon went 
flatly. ' Oh diddle do ' encored dubiously. 
The Bones dance encored dubiously. Fanny 
Frail^ great success. Scene 2nd, very fair. 
* Cheap Chesterfield.' Scene ist. Act III. 
poor., and Mr. F. C. Burnand slightly for- 
got his tag which ." It is chronicled 

that the second night of burlesque was 
better. "Mr. Kelly got on very well, 
and having discovered the iokes in 



the day time they were taken in the 

Mr. Burnand told with great gusto of his 
interview with the Vice-Chancel lor for per- 
mission for the first performance. 

The worthy Vice- Chancellor was in a 
hurry, as he had to attend a " meeting of 
the Heads." Was it a Greek play ? Good 
gracious, no ; it was " Box and Cox." 
After the query aS' to the Greek drama, 
young Burnand was afraid to tell him the 
title, and therefore merely said, " We are 
thinking of playing a little piece by Mr. 
Maddison Morton." 

" Fellow of Trinity ? " asked the Vice- 

He was not. 

" Um ! And you propose acting a play 
written by Mr. Morton, who is not a Fellow 
of Trinity ? What is the name ? " 

" Box and Cox,"" replied the undergrad. 

Fortunately time prevented the Vice- 
Chancellor from asking if Box and Cox were 
Fellows of Trinity, and he went forth and 
laid the matter before "the Heads." The 
permission was denied. But Mr. Burnand 
and his fellow Thespians were not to be 
put down by the Heads. They got a couple 
of rooms at " The Hoop Hotel," and alter 
having ladders placed handy for escape in 
case the college authorities got wind of the 
occurrence, a start was made. From that 
day the club has remained one of the most 
successful of all amateur societies. Here 
is the first programme : — 


This evening will be presented 



Colonel Jack Delaware Mr. G. Se3-mour. 

Griffin Mr. Tom Pierce. 

Biffin Mr, A. Herbert. 

To be followed by 



Cheiterfield Honey bun Mr. Tom Pierce. 

Crank Mr. W. Smith. 

Mrs. Houghton Mr. C. Digby. 

Mrs. Crank Mr. T. King. 

Mrs.Jtwell Mr. R. Johnson. 

To conclude with the Burlesque Tragic Opera. 


Artaxominous (King of Utopia) ... Mr. Tom Pierce. 

Fusbos Mr. T. King. 

General Bombastes Mr. James Beale. 

Distaffina Mr. C. Digby. 

Army, Courtiers, &c. 

Acting Manager — Tom Pierce, Esq. 

Sta^e Manager — N. Yates, Esq. 

Prompter — J. Shepherd, Esq. 

Scenery and Appointments by S. J. E. Jones, E=a. 

Many of these names were noms de theatre. 
Mr. A. Herbert was General FitzGerald, 
whilst Mr. Tom Pierce was Mr. F. C. 
Burnand. It was under the name of "Tom 
Pierce " that he wrote many successful 
plays. The portraits reproduced in these 
pages show Mr. Burnand in many of the 
characters which he played at Cambridge — 
as Popple., in "In for a Holyday " ; as 
Mephistopheles., in "Alonzo the Brave"; 
2& Jumbo., in " Turkish Waters " ; as Rumti- 
foozle ; and as the Ex- Chicken., with Mr. 
Quinton Twiss — a celebrated amateur — as 
Benjamin Bobbin., in "B. B.," a farce 
written by Mr. F. C. Burnand in con- 
junction with Air. Montagu Williams. 
Mr. Burnand still has the MS. of the original 
plot of "Alonzo the Brave," produced at 

" Well," Mr. Burnand continued, in his 
happiest mood, " I took my degree, and left 




if • 



Cambridge. I may tell you that during my 
last year at Cambridge I determined to 
adopt the Church as my profession, and an 
uncle of mine promised me a good country 
living, which was at that time in his gift. 
My studies were commenced under Dr. 
Harold Browne, and continued at Cuddes- 
don College, under the Rev. H. P. Liddon 
— subsequently Canon Liddon. However, I 
finally found myself in the Seminary of the 
Oblates of St. Charles at Bayswater, of which 
community Dr. Henry Edward Manning — 
the late Cardinal — was the head. I have 
.seen Cardinal Manning — remember, I am 
speaking of the days when I was at Bays- 
water — put up his fists and spar and hit out 
most scientifically with all the fun imagin- 
able. In his quiet way he would say, as he 
' let go ' his left at an imaginary foe, ' Ah ! 
I think I could do it.' I must confess to 
commencing a play even whilst I was study- 
ing there. I finished my reading, and left. 
Previous to doing so, I went in to see Dr. 

" ' Well, well,' he said, ' and what are you 
going to do ? ' 

" * I'm not quite sure, Dr. Manning,' was 
my reply. 

" ' Ah ! ' said the Doctor, ' I'm afraid you 
have no vocation for the priesthood.' 

"'No,' I said, 'I have no vocation — at 
least, not for the priesthood,' 

" ' I don't understand,' the Doctor ex- 
claimed ; ' what you mean by a vocation for 
anything else. This is a great question, 
and one concerning the soul.' 

" Then I went straight at it. ' Well, 
Doctor,' I said, ' I rather thought of going 
on the stage.' 

" ' Why, you might as well call cobbling 
a vocation,' the Doctor said, surprised. 

"'Yes,' I replied, quietly, 'there would 
be more so/e in it, wouldn't there ? ' 

" I can see him now laughing. He let 
me go. 

" Shortly after that I went to Edinburgh, 
where I met my old Etonian school 
friend, Mr. Montagu Williams, and acted 
at Mr. Wyndham's — Robert Wyndham, 
not Charles — Theatre. Then I stayed a 
good time at Esher with George Meredith. 
He had just written his first book, ' Richard 
Feverell ' — a work never beaten by him- 
self. I have a first edition of it. I 
came to London, and went to the Bar 
— not with success. I did a little at the 
Clerkenwell Sessions. Why did I give up 
the Bar ? The following is the reason : I 
made a fearful hash of a case of forgery 
in which the wife was committed with her 
husband. I had to defend the wife, Besley 
was for the prosecution. It will show yov; 
how much I knew about the ways of the 
court when I tell you that I actually asked 



Besley what to do. He wrote back on a 
slip of paper, ' Just get up and say, " Coer- 
cion by husband.'' ' I did. Russell Gurney, 
the Recorder, at once discharged her. The 
ungrateful woman was so cross at being 
separated from her husband that she took 
off her boot and threw it at me. \Vith 
the throwing f>f the 
boot I threw up the 

" I was then play- 
writing. My first piece 
was produced at the 
St. James's, under the 
direction of Chatterton 
and Miss Wyndham. 
It ra 1 a hundred nights 
— a very considerable 
run in those days. I 
got _^2 5 down, and_;^2 
a night for it. How 
did I get my first com- 
mission ? I will tell 
you. At one time of 
great distress and diffi- 
culty I had to sell all 
my books. I thought 
to myself, 'I've got 
four plays printed, why 
should they not bring 
me a little coin ? ' 1 
called on Mr. Lacy in 
the Strand, and he gave 
me ;^8 for them. I had 
a MS. of ' Dido,' which 
I had shown to Mr. 
W. B. Donne, the 
Licenser of Plays. He 
advised me to show it 
to Robson. Robson 
had just produced a 
burlesque on ' Medea,' 
so could not manage it. 
I gave the MS. to Lacy 
to look over. Shortly 
afterwards I had a 
letter from him asking 
me to come down to his shop. It seems a Mr. 
Chas. Young had been struck by the piece. 
Young was an AustraUan comedian. He 
liked' one of the parts, and promised to show 
it to Chatterton, one of the then lessees of 
the St. James's. Chatterton accepted it. 
At this time I did not know a soul in the 
literary world. Then I wrote ' B. B.' with 
Montagu Williams, another piece — ' The 
Isle of St. Tropez ' — with him for the 
Wigans, and I was writing burlesques pretty 
frequently for the Olympic, 


"Robson was unequalled as a comedian. 
He was a great study, with wonderful 
flashes of real wit at rehearsal. Jie played 
in ' B. B.,' and I may tell you that it was 
his personality which suggested the part 
to Montagu Williams and myself. At re- 
hearsal Robson usetl to make us laugh so 
much that we couldn't 
get on, and a farce 
taking forty minutes to 
play would often take 
three hours with him 
to • rehearse. In the 
midst of a passage he 
would shout, ' Oh ! oh ! 
I've thought of such a 
funny thing ! Now 
supposing,' addressing 
a brother actor, ' I put 
my left hand on your 
shoulder just in that 
part. Now let's run 
through that little bit 
again ! ' 

" We did as he re- 
quested, and at the 
situation Robson would 
put his right hand on 
the other actor's shoul- 
der, which, of course, 
reversed the positions. 
When we remonstrated 
with him it was always, 
' Oh, the other wouldn't 
have done at all ! ' " 

It will be a surprise 
to many to know that 
Mr. Burnand's connec- 
tion with Punch — of 
which paper he was 
destined years after to 
become the Editor — 
com-menced when he 
was at college. He was 
a capital draughtsman, 
and recorded his im- 
pressions pictorially on 
the fly-leaf of any book he could lay his 
pencil on. There are, in Vol. xxviii. of 
Punch, a couple of pictures, with no signa- 
tures, drawn by Leech, the original dravv- 
ings for which were sent to Mark Lemon — 
then the Editor — by Mr. Burnand whilst 
at Cambridge. One is on page 28 of the 
volume. This is entitled, " Friendly, but 
Very Unpleasant " : — 

Livelv Party (charging elderly gentleman with his 
umbrella) : " Halloa, Jones ! " 

Disgust of Elderly Party, whose narne is Smith, 



Dean. "Well, Sin?" 

Small University Man {under the impression lluit he uas irritated the Dean by hia 
conspicuous numstaches). " I believe Ton wakt-ED to ..s?E4K to me, sib, about — 


Dean,. "Some Histake, Sir 1 1 didh't peeckive that you had ajiy I" 

li'j kind permission of the Proprietors of " Fundi:"] 

The " Elderly Party's " face is just as 
Mr. Burnand drew it ; the other is Leech's 
own, and, therefore, all the more remark- 
able. The second picture, here given, is 
still more interesting. Though Mr. Bur- 
nand knew neither Leech nor Mark Lemon, 
when he sent the drawing he requested 
John Leech to be kind enough to copy the 
Dean exactly, as it was a likeness of the 
Rev. Mr. Hedley, Senior Dean of Trinity 
College, Cambridge, while the youth was a 
burlesque presentment of himself. Owing 
to Mr. Burnand's going in for acting, he 
had sacrificed a very small moustache. 

Mr. Burnand had very little difficulty 
in getting on the staff of Punch. Whilst 
engaged in playwriting he also did con- 
siderable journalistic work, and amongst 
other journals was with the late Henry J. 
Byron and Mr. W. S. Gilbert on Fun. 
Tom Hood was editor then, and the pro- 
prietor a looking-glass manufacturer named 

" Maclean," said Mr. Burnand, " used to 
smile very broadly, and show a set of teeth 
that led Byron to call him Maclean teeth. 
I took a very good idea to Maclean. It Avas 

to imiiaie the popular novelists 
of the day, and I drew out the 
first sketch for his inspection. 
He wouldn't see it. I wrote to 
Mark Lemon and asked him to 
see me. He did ; he saw me 
and my notion at once. The 
first was to be a burlesque of a 
page in The London Journal. 
Sir John Gilbert was illustrating 
that paper at the time. 

'"We'll get Gilbert to do 
the pictures,' cried Lemon. 
Gilbert undertook the work, 
and so it came about that he 
had to burlesque himself! 
Millais did a picture for it, so 
did ' Phiz,' Du Maurier, ^nd 
Charles Keene. 

" Keene ! I never knew Keene 
tell an anecdote in his life. He 
couldn't. He could recollect 
something about a story, but 
could never get through it. 
There he would sit, pulling 
away at his little stump of a 
pipe, and all of a sudden break 
out into a laugh and chuckle, 
and endeavour to contribute his 
anecdote something in this style : 
" ' I can't help laughing '— 
chuckle. ' I once went to see ' 
-' somebody — I forget his name, 
but yoiill know — about twenty-five years 
ago ' — chuckle. ' When I say twenty-five 
I mean two or three years ago ' — chuckle. 
' I was going from ' — chuckle — ' what's 
that place ? Ah ! I forget, but it was on a 
'bus. There, it was the funniest thing 
you ever saw ' — prolonged chuckle — ' I was 
outside — no, it was inside, when suddenly 

the man said to me ' 

'"What man, Charlie?' we would ask. 
" 'Why, the man. He said to me — no, it 
wasn't me. Ah ! well, it's no matter ' — 

" 'Well, what made you laugh, Charles?' 
was our question. 

" ' Why, the ' — chuckle — ' the — the joke ! ' 
'"What joke?' 

" 'Well ' — chuckle — ' I hardly remember 
the joke ; but — it was about thai time / ' 

" Poor Keene had an anecdote which he 
always wound up with, ' Theywere Ribston 
pippins,' but nobody ever knew what the 
story was about, or where it began. 

" Oh, yes, I knew Thackeray well. 
Thackeray sold me once. It happened at his 
house at Prince's-gate, on the occasion of - 

— chuckle- 


The strand macazine. 

my first visit there. He had his study 
fitted up with bookshelves all round. 
Thackeray would invariably lead up the 
conversation with a reference to some poet. 
I thought him in error one day, so I said, 
' I don't think that is the quotation.' 

" ' I think so,' replied Thackeray. ' But 
there are his 
works on that 
shelf,' pointing 
to the door, en 
which were ar- 
ranged shelves, 
as I thought ; 
'mount the 
ladder and see 
for yourself 

"I did so, 
made a grasp 
for the volume, 
and found they 
were all dum- 
mies ! Thack- 
eray was de • 

To-day Mr. 
Burnand sits in 
the identical 
chair once oc- 
cupied by Mark 
Lemon, Shir- 
ley Brooks, and 
Tom Taylor, 
the latter of 
whom he suc- 
ceeded as editor 
of Punch in 
1880. It is an 

old-fashioned wooden armchair. 
Wednesday night the famous 
dinner is held 

From a Photo. 


About fourteen sit down 
at the ancient table, on which are cut the 
names of everybody — cut with their own 
hands — who have been privileged to find a 
seat there. One visitor invariably creeps 
into the editor's room — the Punch cat. It 
is the biggest cat in the neighbourhood of 
Fleet-street, and when Mr. Burnand is 
working it always perches on his chair. 
The Punch dinner is a suggestive meal. 
Everybody there contributes some idea. 
After dinner the members of the Punch 
staff go into committee on the political and 
social topics of the day. The result of this 
deliberation is the cartoon and second 

cartoon, or " Cartoon, junior," of the next 

It is a remarkable fact that only one 
mishap in the principal cartoon has 
happened during Mr. Burnand's editorship. 
It was at the period when Khartoum was 
supposed to be all right and General Gordon 

safe. All Eng- 
land was ex- 
pecting Gor- 
don's release, 
and Punch ap- 
peared v/ith a 
picture of him 
— triumphant. 
Mr. Burnand 
was on his way 
with Mr. Sam- 
bourne to an ex- 
hibition of pic- 
tures in Bond- 
street. Sudden- 
ly the news- 
boys were heard 
shouting. Their 
rapid and often 
utterances were 
by Mr. Bur- 
nand, who turn- 
ed to his com- 
panion and said, 
" Well, we are 
all right with 
the cartoon." 

But the boys 
drew nearer, 
think that is what they are 
Sambourne said. " I'll get a 


"I don't 
crying," Mr. 

The paper contained the news of the 
death of General Gordon. 

A Parisian paper, in commenting upon 
the prediction in Punch, said the cartoon 
" showed what all England was expecting." 

I was just leaving The Boltons, and 
shaking hands with Mr. Burnand. 

" How does one become a humorist ? " I 

"Oh!" was the reply, "it comes from 
having a serious turn of mind and not 
yielding to it ! " 

Harry How. 


^OE BU roT-OET[|\ 

By F. Bayford Harrison. - 

Part I — The Invalid in White. 

famous surgeon, had retired 
to his apartments after a 
professional round, and had 
hardly begun to eat the dinner 
^ which his old servant, 
Manette, served to him, when a note 
was brought to him. He inquired who had 
btought it, but the concierge had not 
noticed the messenger. It was one after- 
noon early in April, 1727 ; the place was 
Paris ; and Isez was the most fashionable 
doctor of his day, and much in request 
among the fine ladies and gentlemen of 

The note, a sheet of white paper written 
on in pale ink, and in a very small, un- 
characteristic handwriting, contained these 
words : — 

" M. the surgeon J. F. Isez is prayed to 
betake himself this afternoon, at six o'clock, 
to the Rue du Pot-de-fer, near the Luxem- 

There was no signature. 

M. Isez threw on him his cloak with the 
velvet collar, called a sedan chair, and 
hurried away to his unknown patient. 

By the time that Isez arrived at the Rue 
du Pot-de-fer it was quite dark. The oil 
lamps, swinging here and there, gave but 
little light. On one side of the street were 
the doors of old-fashioned houses ; on the 
other a few shops and cabarets^ succeeded 
by a long, high blank wall. As Isez' chair- 
men picked their stumbling steps over the 

cobbles, they sounded loud in the silent 
street, and they saw no living creature save 
a few dogs and cats prowling about and 
sniffing at the heaps of refuse thrown in 
the road. 

But when they had proceeded about half 
the length of the wall, they became aware 
of a man's figure, standing motionless. This 
man, as soon as he saw Isez' chair, 
approached and said, " Do I speak to M. 
Isez ? " 

" Yes, I am he,'' replied the surgeon. 

" You are late. It is long past six 

" I have only just received the note. I 
came at once. I did not even wait to finish 
my dinner." 

" Dinner ! " the man repeated, in a tone 
of infinite contempt. " Follow me." 

The stranger led the way. He was plainly 
clothed in black, and Isez could judge 
nothing from his manner as to the meaning 
of this adventure. 

They went a few steps along the street, 
and then the stranger opened, by some 
secret means, a narrow door in the wall, 
and motioned to Isez to enter. The sur- 
geon did so, the door closed behind him, 
shutting out the man who had acted as his 

He found himself in a small courtyard, 
and facing him was the entrance of a house, 
a porch with a row of pillars, showing white 
through the darkness. 

A porter appeared, and ushered Isez into 
a wide hal], paved with marble, from which 
a fine staircase led to the upper stories. 




There Avas nothing remarkable about the 
porter, and Isez beheved himself to be in 
the hotel of some noble or wealthy gentle- 

" Monsieur is expected on the first floor, 
if he will give himself the trouble to 
mount," said the porter, indicating the 

Isez went up. Facing him was a door, 
half open, through which light shone; he 
passed by it into an ante-chamber hung 
with white. It was singular, even start- 

The walls were covered with white velvet ; 
chairs and sofas were of the same material ; 
the carpet was of plain thick white wool, 
and every step which Isez made left a deep 
depression. A small table of white wood 
supported a white china lamp which burnt 
but feebly. Of other furniture there was 

A lackey was in this room, a young man 
tall and handsome, clothed entirely in 
white — coat, waistcoat, breeches, stockings, 
shoes, all in dead-white material ; his hair 
was thickly powdered and carefully curled, 
and tied with a white silk bow ; white lace 
ruffles at his neck and wrists ; his skin was 
of a peculiar white 
tint which struck the 
professional eye of 
Isez as being morbid 
and diseased. 

" M. Isez," he said, 
coming to meet the 
surgeon, "be so good 
as to wipe your 
shoes." And he 
handed him a linen 
duster which lay be- 
side the lamp. 

"It is not neces 
sary," answered Isez ; 
" I have only just got 
out of my chair, and 
my shoes are not 

"Nevertheless," re- 
turned the lackey, "it 
must be done as a 
precaution. Every- 
thing in this house is 
of extreme cleanli- 
ness, and you must 
be so good as to wipe 
your shoes." 

Isez shrugged his 
shoulders and obeyed. 
He rubbed his shoes 

with the duster, and showed the man that 
hardly a speck of dust came off on the 

The servant bowed gravely. " This 
way," said he, moving down the narrow 
room, towards a door opposite to that by 
which the surgeon had entered. 

Through this door Isez passed into a 
larger apartment, hung with white silk. 
It contained handsome furniture of white 
wood upholstered in white silk. The 
carpet was of roughly-woven silk. There 
were several marble tables ; china vases, 
lace curtains, alabaster candlesticks, and 
various other ornamental articles decorated 
the room ; and Isez saw at one glance that 
that though all was of the same uniform 
shade of white, yet all was in the highest 
degree handsome and expensive. 

A second lackey approached, also a good- 
looking but pallid young man. He, too, 
was powdered and curled, and clothed in 
white ; but whereas the first servant had 
worn cloth, this man's garments were of 
thick ribbed silk. By this time Isez was 
growing somewhat accustomed to the 
dazzling white tones all around him, and 
also to the air of mystery which pervaded 




the house. He was not surprised, therefore, 
when the lackey handed him a second hnen 
cloth and bade him wipe his shoes a second 
time. He did it in silence, and found not 
even a suspicion of dust. 

This ceremony ended, the servant opened 
another door, and ushered Isez into a third 

Again, the room was entirely furnished 
in white. The walls ivere hung with fluted 
satin ; the sofas and chairs were covered with 
broche satin ; the carpet was of satin, on 
which was a raised pattern of flowers in 
velvet ; a large bed with heavy satin cur- 
tains and thick quilt stood at one side of 
the room. A dressing-table was in the bay- 
window, from which every breath of air 
was excluded by voluminous draperies. The 
atmosphere was heavy, as if never purified 
by sunshine or breeze, but always lighted 
up by white wax candles in girandoles 
against the walls. 

The inhabitant of this chamber was a 
strange figure which sat in a fauteuil beside 
the fireplace of white tiles, on which burnt 
an open fire of coal and wood — the only 
touch of colour and brightness which Isez 
had seen in the ghostly house. A tall, stout 
person this appeared to be, wearing a white 
satin nightcap, and a white satin dressing- 
gown lined with white fur. A white mask 
covered his face, of which only two pale-blue 
eyes could be seen. 


As soon as this extraordinar}', fantastic 
figure saw Isez enter, he said in a mono- 
tonous, hoarse voice, " The devil is inside 
my body."' 

Isez waited to hear more, but not another 
word followed. He remained standing for 
some time, but nothing was said by the 
patient, who did not even raise his eyes 
again, or look at the surgeon. As well as 
Isez could judge, three-quarters of an hour 
passed without a single remark on either 

A table stood beside the invalid. On it 
lay a heap of gloves. He took up a 
white silk glove, and slowly put it on his 
left hand ; then he put one on his right 
hand. Over these he put a pair of satin 
ones ; next a pair of kid ones. By this 
time his hands looked enormous. The 
fourth pair were of white velvet ; the fifth 
pair of fine wool ; the sixth pair of ermine. 
The hands appeared now as those of a 
giant. Isez watched these doings with in- 
terest which deepened into alarm. As soon 
as the six pairs of gloves were on, the 
invalid began to take them off again, Avith 
much deliberation folding them neatly to- 
gether in pairs. At length reappeared his 
waxen, unwholesome-looking hands. 

Isez was furtively glancing round the 
room. In one corner stood a sword in a 
white scabbard ; in another a musket with 
the stock painted white ; two pistols of 
white wood mounted in 
silver lay on a side table. 
Isez was unarmed, and 
did not like what he 
saw ; he found himself 
trembling, and dreaded 
lest he should fall. Al- 
% though he had not been 
^ invited to do so, he 
-^ seated himself. 

A silence ensued, last- 
ing a quarter of an hour. 
At the end of that time 
the phantom pulled a 
bell - cord which hung 
near his chair. The two 
white lackeys entered. 

"Bring bandages," 
said the wooden voice to 

The men went out, 
and returned with 
several strips of linen. 
" Bleed me," said the 
figure ; " take five pounds of blood." 

Isez started back, astonished at the quan- 




tity. " But, monsieur," he cried, " wliat 
physician has ordered you to be let such 
an enormous quantity of blood ? " 

" Myself." 

The surgeon did not know what to do. 
He dared not disobey, with those lackeys 
and those firearms all around him ; yet he 
could not follow out instructions which 
would kill the patient. He thought that 
to bleed from the foot would be less danger- 
ous than from the arm. 

" Warm water, if you please," he said to 
the lackeys ; one of them brought it in a 
white china basin. The other then knelt 
and took off the phantom's fine white-thread 
stockings ; then a second pair ; and so on, 
until six pairs had been drawn off, as well 
as a pair of white fur slippers lined with 
white satin. Then the surgeon beheld a 
beautiful leg and foot, as white and delicate 
as those of a woman. 

He began to bleed ; very shortly the 
patient appeared unwell, and likely to 

" Take off his mask," said Isez, " and 
give him air." 

The lackeys interposed, and prevented 
Isez from touching their master. He was 
laid on the floor ; the. surgeon bound up 
the foot. Presently the invalid began to 

them warm the bed " he whis- 


This was quickly done with a 
metal warming- 
pan, and the sick 
man assisted to 
place himself in the 
bed. Isez felt his 
pulse and perceived 
that all was well 
again, and the ser- 
vants left the room. 

The surgeon went 
to the fireplace and 
wiped his lancet on 
some of the linen 
strips, wondering 
Avhat could be the 
explanation of this 
strange adventure, 
when he suddenly 
heard steps behind 
him, and glancing 
into the mirror over 
the mantelpiece, 
beheld the patient 
fling himself from 
the bed, and, with 


one bound, place himself beside the terri- 
fied surgeon, who almost dropped with 
horror and astonishment. 

On the marble chimneypiece lay five 
crowns. The phantom figure took them in 
its waxen fingers and held them out to Isez. 
'' Are you satisfied with the fee ? " 
" Yes, yes, monsieur," replied Isez, 
trembling, " quite satisfied." 
" Then go ! " 

Isez did not require to be told twice. He 
took to his heels, and ran into the outer 
apartment. There the lackeys awaited 

He gazed from one to the other. 
" Is this some foolish pleasantry, some 
bad jest ? " he asked, growing angry now 
that he found no bodily harm was intended 
him. " What does this mean ? " 

" Monsieur," answered one of the men, 
'' of what have you to complain ? " 

" Have you not been well paid ? " asked 
the other ; "have you been injured ? " 
Isez found that he had nothing really to 
I - complain of ; he 

I'L I ll M it shrugged his shoul- 


The lackeys took 
each a flambeau and 
led him with all due 
ceremony through 
I the narrow ante- 
chamber, down the 




The mystery of the roe du pot-de-FER. 


stairs, by the hall and the courtyard to the 
little door into the Rue du Pot-de-fer, 
where his chair awaited him. 

Very thankful he was to leave the strange, 
phantasmal house, and to arrive safely at 
his own abode. He could not understand 
the meaning of his adventure ; whether 
some ghastly secret was imprisoned in that 
white chamber, or whether the whole affair 
had been a practical joke. At all events, 
the five crowns in his pocket were real 
enough. He resolved not to speak to any- 
one of what had happened. A doctor is 
privileged like a priest in confession ; he 
would keep his own counsel. So he went 
to his bed, and had fantastic dreams. 

In the morning, before he was up, 
Manette was called down to speak with a 
young gentleman, who inquired how M. 
Isez found himself, after his blood-letting of 
a white man. 

Manette knew nothing about the matter. 
" But I will inquire of Monsieur ; " for her 
curiosity was aroused on her own account. 

" Madame need not trouble herself," said 
the young man ; " it is of no consequence." 
And bowing politely, he disappeared down 
the Rue de I'Aubepine. 

Manette returned to her kitchen, pon- 
dered a good deal, and while her master 
took his coffee, told him of the young gen- 
tleman's visit. ]sez perceived that his 
adventure was known. His tongue was 
untied, and he talked of it wherever he 
went. It became the theme of Paris con- 
versation during a few days, and came to 
the ears of the King, who was as much per- 
plexed and amused as other people. The 
Cardinal de Fleury sent for Isez, and made 
him tell the whole story with his own lips. 

Mile. Aisse,''' writing to Madame Calan- 
drini soon after the adventure, says : — 

"There have been a thousand conjectures, 
but none seem probable ; for myself, I be- 
lieve that it was a practical joke of some 
young men, who amused themselves by 
frightening the surgeon." 

It was quite true that the surgeon had 
been frightened. Probably those persons who 
laughed at his fears would have been still 
more alarmed had they been in his place. 
A day or two after the adventure Isez found 
time to walk along the Rue du Pot-de-fer ; 
he found that the door by which he had 
entered the mysterious house had disap- 

* The story, up to this point, may be read in the 
Sixth Letter of Mile. Aisse, in the Edition arranged 
by Eugene Asse, and published by MM. Charpen- 
tier et Cie., Paris, 1873. 

peared. The blank wall was there, blanker 
than ever. This was strange ; and Isez 
was unable even to find any traces in the 
wall to indicate where the door had been. 
Moreover, Manette, who knew every street 
in Paris, and whose eyes, though aged, were 
remarkably keen, declared that there never 
had been before, and never was afterwards, 
any door whatever in that blank wall. 

The fashionable surgeon might almost 
have forgotten his adventure in the Rue du 
Pot-de-fer had it not been kept in his 
mind by other singular persons and strange 

Part II. — The Horseman in Black, 

A SUMMONS came from the Due de Gesvres, 
and Isez had no choice but to obey it imijie- 
diately. This famous invalid was perpe- 
tually in need of a doctor, and as his ail- 
ments were incurable, he was a valuable 

When taking leave of the groom of the 
chambers, after seeing the sick man, he 
ventured to remind him of the fact that the 
Due owed him a large sum of money. 

" You are right, monsieur," was the reply, 
" and M. le Due has instructed me to pay 
you fifty louis on account." 

Isez would have preferred the whole 
amount due to him, but thought it as well 
to take what was offered. He placed the 
money, in notes and gold, within the purse 
hanging under the skirt of his coat, and 
then started through the dark night on his 
homeward journey. 

Soon after leaving the Chateau of St. 
Ouen, the road passed through a small but 
thick wood. Isez could hardly see the track, 
and held his bridle very slackly, trusting to 
the eyes and the sagacity of his horse to 
find the way in safety. Isez was feeling 
comfortable after a very good supper and 
very acceptable payment ; he was thinking 
over the white invalid of the Rue du Pot- 
de-fer, when suddenly a man clothed in 
black, and mounted on a black horse, sprang 
from among the trees and seized the bridle 
out of the surgeon's hand. 1 

" Your money ! " said the highwayman. 

"No, no," gasped Isez, terrified and 

" Your money ! " repeated the robber, 
holding a pistol to the surgeon's head. 

His teeth chattering too much to allow 
him to expostulate, and unarmed as he was, 
Isez, never very valorous, gave up his 
purse containing the fifty louis. 

The highwayman then pulled out Isez' 




watch, to which was attached a gold seal, 
and transferred them to his own pocket. 
Next, he bade the unfortunate man dis- 
mount, and grasped the bridle of the 
surgeon's horse. 

" You can walk home. Good-night." 

And away rode the robber, humming an 
air from the ballet called " Les Elements," 
while poor Isez stood on the path, deprived 
of his money, his watch and seal, and his 
trusty steed. What could he do in the 
middle of a dark night, and a league from 
the outskirts of Paris ? There was nothing 
for it but to go on foot, and, very sadly and 
wearily, he began to walk. He was too 
much distressed to be able to think clearly, 
and he hardly noticed how he was going. 
But soon he emerged from the little wood, 
and found himself on an open road. 

A short distance brought him to a house 
— a good, though not grand house — with 
an iron gate in the middle of its front. 

*'I will ask whose house it is," said the 

surgeon, "and beg permission to 
rest awhile and recruit myself." 

When he knocked at the gate, 
an old man-servant responded to 
the summons. 

** My good friend," groaned 
Isez, "I have been robbed by a 
highwayman. Will your master 
allow me to come in and rest 
awhile ? " 

" We cannot admit strangers," 
answered the man ; " it is late." 

Isez groaned again. " What is 
the name of your master, my 
friend ? " 

" He is M. le Colonel Henon- 

"Ah, is it so ! Then he knows 
me well. We were good friends 
long ago. Tell him that Jean 
Francois Isez craves shelter for 
the night." 

The janitor retired, and pre- 
sently appeared the Colonel, a 
brave and good man, for whom 
Isez had the highest respect and 
the sincerest affection. At once 
the surgeon was led in, and 
brought to a pleasant ropm, 
where supper was laid. 

"I give you welcome," said 

the Colonel, courteously; "pray 

be seated, and partake of supper. 

We will wait no longer for my 

son, who is late this evening." 

Isez thanked his host, but 

declined to eat, only accepting a glass of 

claret. He told his adventure, and the 

unfortunate loss of his money and purse. 

" My purse and my house are at your 
disposal, my good friend," said Henon- 
Durant ; " remain here this night, and 
to-morrow accept such a sum as may serve 
your necessities. You can repay it at your 

Isez thanked the Colonel with gratitude ; 
and had begun to inquire as to the family 
of his friend, when a young man entered 
whom he at once recognised as the high- 
wayman who had robbed him. 

" My son, Eugene," said Colonel Henon- 
Durant, presenting the youth to Isez. 

The latter was too much astonished to 
utter a word, except to plead fatigue and to 
ask to be shown to his room. The Colonel 
attended him to the door of a bedchamber, 
and there left him. 

Alone, he felt utterly bewildered. Was 
he in the house of a cut-throat ? Was the 



father a.i bad as the son ? Was the brave, 
generous old soldier an accomplice with a 
highwayman ? or was Isez deceived by an 
accidental likeness between the robber and 
Eugene Durant ? His first thought was to 
rush away from 
this dangerous 
house. But every 
door was by this 
time barred, and 
he dared not at- 
tempt it. 

The surgeon 
gasped for air. He 
opened the case- 
ment and let the 
cool breeze blow 
on his forehead. 
While standing by 
the window he 
heard, as he 
thought, the whin- 
nying of his own 
horse. He re- 
sponded b}/ a 
whistle which he 
often employed to 
cheer the faithful 

animal. A further " it 

whinny made it 

certain to Isez' mind that his horse was in 
the stable of Colonel Durant's house, and 
that there was no room for doubt of the 
identity of Eugene Durant and the black 

But Isez could not bring himself to believe 
that his respected old friend was to blame 
in the matter. Goodness is not always 
hereditary. Troubled and alarmed, the sur- 
geon could not lie down, but sat through 
the night in an easy-chair, and as soon as 
daylight appeared, quietly left his room and 
sought that which on the previous evening 
the Colonel had pointed out as his own. 

When Isez opened the door he saw a 
plainly fvn-nished apartment, and on the 
curtainless bed the figure of the fine old 
oflficer, sleeping calmly and restfully. This 
sight confirmed Isez in his opinion that 
Colonel Durant knew nothing of his son's 
nightly robberies. 

" Durant, my dear old friend," said Isez, 
in a low voice, " will you listen to me for a 
little while ? " 

In a moment Durant was wide awake. 
He sat up, and saw by Isez' countenance 
that something was wrong. 

"Durant, I have a sad and terrible thing 
to say to you ; can you bear to hear it ? " 

" Speak plainly, what is it ? " 

" Dear friend, it was your son who robbed 
me last night." 

" Great heaven ! " muttered the Colonel ; 
" impossible ! " 


" It is better," said Isez, speaking rapidly, 
" that you should learn it from me than 
from the law, which would- be less merciful 
than I am. Sooner or later, he must fall 
into the hands of justice. That your son 
should take up this abominable trade is 
almost incredible " 

" Impossible ! " sighed the poor father 
again, and fell back on his pillow in- 

Isez fanned him, and sprinkled his face 
with water, and presently saw him recovered 
from the swoon. 

When his strength returned, Durant 
sprang from the bed, hurried on some 
clothing, and rushed towards the door, 
crying, " The coward, the thief ! My son a 
robber ! My son a highwayman ! My son 
a felon ! I thank God that his mother is 
dead, and that he has no sister. I will not 
have such a son. He shall die. Let me 
pass, Isez, let me pass ! I will kill him ! " 

And, thrusting aside the surgeon, who 
tried to restrain him, Durant rushed from 
the room, and up the stairs into the apart- 
ment where the young man lay sleeping, or 
pretending to sleep. 

On the table near the window lay Isez' 
watch, and his seal bearing his monogram. 



The father paused to examine them. 
There was no doubt of the infamy of the 
handsome young fellow, who now was 
standing in the middle of the floor, clothed 
in the black garments which he had worn 
the previous night. 

" Wretch ! Scoundrel ! " cried the 
Colonel ; "is it for this that I have been 
the most loving of fathers ? How long 
have you pursued the trade of robber ? But 
you shall pursue it no longer ! " 

Eugene Durant saw that he had lost the 
game. He pushed past his father, but at the 
door was met by Isez, who barred his way. 
At the same moment, Colonel Durant saw 
that two pistols lay beside the watch and seal. 
He lifted one of them ; there was a flash ; and 
his son fell bleedinsc into the arms of Isez. 

A second time he tried to make himself 
heard, but in vain. Isez leaned over him 
and listened ; he caught only the words, 
" Rue du Pot-de-fer." 

And then, without another sound or sign, 
with only one great gasp, the youth died. 

Durant was as one stunned. He was led 
away by his servants, while Isez disposed 
decently on the bed the corpse of the 
wretched young man. He had hardly 
finished this task when Durant came into 
the room, dressed in his uniform and wear- 
ing his orders, his bearing erect, his gait 
steady, and his eye firm and clear. 

" Our horses are ready," said he to Isez, 
"your horse and mine. You retvirn home. 
I go to the authorities to give myself up 
for murder." 

Not even this pitiable sight — his son 
murdered and weltering in his blood — could 
assuage Durant's anger. He poured out 
fierce words, and filled the house with his 
cries of rage and reproach. It was only 
when Isez, staunching the wound, removed 
one after another the blood-stained rags, 
which the silent servants brought to him, 
and when that handsome young face grew 
whiter and calmer, when the eyes took a 
fixed glassy stare and the lips trying to 
speak could but whisper ; it was only when 
death shadowed the face and figure of his 
child, that Colonel Durant ceased to utter 
reproaches, and bowed his head in sorrow. 

" Father," murmured the pallid lips ; 
"forgive me, if you can." 

Durant made no reply. 

The dying man spoke again, but no one 
could hear what he said. 



What could Isez reply ? They rode away 
together, and as soon as they entered Paris 
the Colonel went off at a trot, while Isez 
rode on quietly to his home. He found 
Manette much alarmed by his absence dur- 
ing the night. 

" Was the Duke very bad, dying ? Or 
did you fall in with highwaymen ? " This 
she asked with a smile. Isez made no 
actual answer, but asked for his coffee. As 
usual, the old woman was a long time pre- 
paring it, and when Isez found fault with 
her she echoed his complaints, and endorsed 
his threats.. But at length she brought the 



coffee, so well made that he forgave her all 
delays, and while he drank she talked. 

" I have made up my old quarrel with the 
concierge^ monsieur. She is a good woman, 
and has a brother who lives in the Rue du 
Pot-de-fer. As soon as she mentioned her 
brother I made it up with her." 

" But why ? " said Isez ; "do you want 
to marry him ? '' 

"Ah, monsieur must have his joke," 
laughed Manette ; "no, but I could not 
rest until I found out about the house where 
monsieur went that evening in April. The 
brother says that the door by which monsieur 
entered was never there but the one night. 
A bit of the wall was knocked down, and 
a door set up ; and after monsieur had been 
and gone the door was taken away, and the 
wall rebuilt with the old bricks, so that no 
one could see that any tricks had been 
played with it." 

" Ah, my good Manette, but why all that 
mystery ? And is there no front to the 
house ? " 

" Of the reason for the mystery I know 
nothing ; but the brother says that the front 
of the house is No. 7, Rue du Pelerin." 

" Perhaps," returned Isez, indifferently ; 
but he went out immediately and took his 
way to the Rue du Pelerin. He felt per- 
suaded that when Eugene Durant spoke 
with his dying breath those words, " Rue 
du Pot-de-fer," he referred to the house 
where Isez had found the white invalid. 
There must be some connection between 
that strange being and the young man who 
had so disgraced himself, and had come to so 
tragic an end at the hand of his own father. 
No. 7, Rue du Pelerin was an ordinary- 
looking house, standing flush with other 
middle-class houses, and having nothing 
remarkable about it. The jalousies of the 
windows were closed, and the whole place 
appeared uninhabited. A stout, middle- 
aged woman appeared to be the concierge. 
She was unwilling to admit Isez ; and it 
was only after long parleying and many 
assurances that he had been there before 
as surgeon to an invalid, that she allowed 
him to enter. As soon as he had permission 
to do so, he ascended the stairs, and on the 
- first floor found the doors all locked and 
barred. He knocked several times, but no 
reply came. He was about to ascend 
another flight and make further efforts, 
when a man came running down the stairs, 
and was recognised by Isez as one of the 
lackeys whom he had seen on the night of 
his adventure. 

"Monsieur," said Isez, addressing the man, 
who was now in ordinary dress, " I have 
come to inquire after the health of the 
gentleman in white. It is about time that 
he was again let blood." 

"He has given no orders on the subject," 
was the man's reply. 

" I have also a message for him," said 
Isez ; " I spent last night at the house of 
Colonel Henon-Durant." 

The countenance of the man showed 
surprise and interest. " Come with me." 
They went up the stairs and entered the 
ante-chamber, where now the white furni- 
ture was soiled and shabby. 

" Be seated, M. Isez," said the lackey, 
" and tell me what you have to say." 

Isez then told the story of what had 
happened on the previous evening, but 
without naming the name of the black 
horseman. As he spoke he saw that the 
man's interest was aroused and increased. 
At the point of the robbery a cunning smile 
played over the face of the servant, but at 
the account of the death of the young 
Eugene Durant the man held his breath and 
listened with the most eager excitement. 

" What — what was the name ? " 

" Eugene Henon-Durant, son of Colonel 

"It is he ! " exclaimed the man. "Dead, 
dead ! " 

"■ Your master ?' " said Isez. 

" My master, and dead — all over — the 
strange masquerade, the rollicking life, the 
escapades on the roads, the purses of gold, 
the splendid furniture, the practical jokes, 
the magnificent suppers — and he is dead, 
and all is over ! Well, better that than a 
madhouse, to which it must have come at 
last ! " 

" Was he then insane ? " asked Isez. 

" At times. Oh, his life was a strange 
one. Perhaps for a week living quietly 
with his father ; then some night he would 
take to the road, either with us or alone, 
and he would ride in here in the early 
morning with money and valuables, and he 
would send us out to bring in all that was 
expensive and delicious, and we would feast 
and gamble and live the wildest life while 
the money lasted, after which would begin 
again the round of Colonel Durant's quiet 
home, and the road once more. And he is 
dead, and what shall we do ? " 

" On that evening in April," said Isez, 
" when I was last here, was the young 
gentleman in his right mind ? " 

" Sir. drink and plav made him often 



insane. He had once a wild fancy to fill 
this house with everything white ; and 
when that was done, he found himself ill 
at ease, and sent me with a note to summon 
you to bleed him. After that evening 
funds got low. Our whiteness was quickly 
smirched. He and I robbed many a tra- 
veller, and many a mail. My fellow-lackey 
generally kept house here with the coii- 
cirr^e guarding the front door, and a 
porter guarding the garden entrance. But 
if Eugene is dead, then all is over. We 
must take care of ourselves. Sir, we 
must go, lest the officers of justice find 

With those words the man passed into 
the second room. There sat the other 
lackey, practising some trick by which to 
cheat at cards. 

" Eugene is dead ; let us save our- 
selves ! " 

The two men 
went into the 
bedroom — for- 
merly that of the 
unhappy Eugene. 
They snatched 
up the firearms 
which stood in 
. the corners, and 
opening what 
looked like the 
door of a cup- 
board, stepped 

out on a landing of the main staircase. 
They ran down, and Isez saw them no 
more. Whether they continued to act as 
highwaymen, he never knew, but he 
thought that they were hardly likely to 
repent and ametid. 

The surgeon gazed with a sort of sad 
wonder on the soiled white furniture, on a 
heap of dirty white gloves, and another of 
dirty white stockings. Drink and play and 
insanity explained the mystery of the Rue 
du Pot-de-fer, as they explain many another 
mystery. Shaking his head as he went, 
Isez left the ghastly apartments, and by the 
main staircase arrived at the hall door. It 
stood ajar, as it had been left by the lackeys, 
Isez closed it, and walked away. 

Mile. A'isse, in writing * of the murder of 
Eugene Henon-Durant by his father, says 
that the Colojiel " went immediately to ask 
for pardon ; everyone was of opinion that 
it should be granted. A good 
man finding his son to be a high- 
wayman is overwhelmed with such 
grief that his brain may well give 
way under it." 

But Jean Francois Isez never 

forgot the invalid in white, and 

the highwayman in black — one 

and the same 

miserable young 


LeUer ix. 


In Leaden hill I Market, 

By Arthur Morrison. 



a changed place since fifteen 
years ago. Broad arcades and 
plate-glass fronts stand where 
stood and tumbled those sin- 
gular shops in which no man 
could tell exactly where the main sitructure 
of the building left off and the hutches, 
boxes, boards, benches, and stock 
began ; where the ways were de- 
vious and men's elbows brushed as 
near either side as they may have 
done any time since the market 
was founded by good Sir Richard 
Whittington, in the year of our 
Lord 1408. Other things have 
changed beside the shops ; by 
statute of 1533 no beef might here 
be sold for more than a halfpenny a 
pound, nor mutton for more than a 
halfpenny half-farthing. Nowadays 
this good old law is defied shame- 

But the demolition of 1880 left 
us something. It did not sweep 
away everything of hutches, boxes, 
boards, baskets, and smell ; thanks 
be to the Corporation for that they 
left us Ship Tavern Passage. 

Dear old Ship Tavern Passage ! 
Cumbered with cages, boxes, and 
baskets, littered with straw, sand, 
and sawdust ; filled with barks and 
yelps, crows and clucks, and the 
smell of mice and rabbits ! What 
living thing, short of a hippopota- 
mus, have I not bought there in 
one of those poky little shops, the 
door to which is a hole, framed 
round with boxes full of living 
things, and guarded by tied dogs 
perpetually attempting to get at 
each other across the opening. In 
the days when the attic was devoted 
to surreptitious guinea-pigs, when 
white rats escaped from the school 
desk, and when grown sisters' dislike 
of mice seemed insane, then was 
Tavern Passage a dream of delight. 

What a delightful door is one such as 

these to a boy ! Here is a box full of 
pigeons — puffy pouters, neckless and almost 
headless. On top of this another box full 
of rabbits — mild-eyed nibblers with tender 
pink noses, with ears at lop, half-lop, cock, 
and the rest. On this, again, there are 
guinea-pigs ; and, still higher, a mighty 
crowing and indignant cock, in a basket. 




What differing emotions do the inscriptions 
on many boards convey to different minds ! 
"Small reptiles on hand " is an inspiriting 





legend to the schoolboy who keeps green 
lizards and tame snakes ; but his sister, his 
mother, or his aunt — well, she shudders, 
and instinctively rubs the palm of her hand 
on her muff. She turns with relief to the 
milder announcement, " Gentles always in 
stock," and, sorely misled by the name, 
wonders why Johnny, instead of nasty 
lizards, can't keep a dear little, pretty, tame 
gentle, with soft fur, and trustful brown 
eyes ; afterwards being much edified to 
find that she has recommended the addi- 
tion of maggots to the juvenile vivarium. 

Nobody knows how well animals of 
different species may agree together till 
visiting Leadenhall Market. Here you 
shall often see hung up in one of those 
wicker cages, of shape like a haystack, a con- 
geries of cocks and hens, ducks, guinea-pigs, 
and puppies that shall astonish you by its 
amiability. They do not fight, being 
bound together by a bond of common in- 
terest — the desire to get out. They cannot 
fight, if they want to, being packed much 
too tightly ; wherein we see how bodily 
tribulation and discomfort may bring about 
moral regeneration and peaceful manners. 
Indeed, we have here, in these cages and 
boxes, a number of small nations or states ; 
for, no matter how amicably the inhabitants 

of each may 'exist together, beaks 
and claws are ever ready to reach 
out whenever possible for attack 
between the bars of cages adjoining. 
All the stock isn't kept in 
crowds, however. It doesn't do. 
Here is an old tom-cat, for in- 
stance, who would scarcely be a 
safe companion for half a dozen 
doves, or white mice ; a handsome, 
wicked-looking old chap who won't 
allow any liberties. And here is 
another, just as wicked-looking, 
' and not at all handsome. He has 
begun to despair of anybody ever 
buying him, and is crusty in con- 
sequence of being a drug in the market. It 
is a noticeable thing that every animal here, 
always excepting the cats, shows a most 
intelligent an.d natural anxiety as to who 
is to become its owner. Thev all know 
that they are here for sale, quite as well 
as the shopkeeper himself ; and every 
face is anxiously turned toward each new 
comer, while a rapid estimate is taken of 
his appearance, dress, manners, disposition, 
the probable character of his house, and 
the quantity of table-scraps therein avail- 
able. All this, as I have said, with the 




exception of the cats. ' A cat has too high a 
sense of his own dignity and worth to betray 
any such degrading interest in human 
beings. Therefore he stares calmly and 
placidly at nothing, giving an occasional 
lick to a paw, and receiving whatev-er en- 
dearments may be offered from outside with 
the lofty inattention of a cast ornament. 
He does this with an idea of enhancing 
his own value, and of inflaming the mind 
of the passer-by with un uncontrollable 
desire to become connected with so exclusive 
a cat ; quite like the cook on show at a 
registry office, who lifts her nose and stares 
straight ahead, to impress the newly arrived 
lady with the belief that she isn't at all 
anxious for an engagement, and could 
scarcely, in any case, condescend so far as 
to have anything to do with her. At the 
same time, like the cook, the cat is the 
sharpest listener, and the most observant 
creature in all this shop, in his own sly way. 
Watch the casual 
air with which he \ \^ 

turns his head as a 
stranger passes the 
shop — to look, of 
course, at some- 
thing else alto- 
gether, upon which 
he finally allows 
his gaze to rest. 
Note, too, as he 
gazes on this im- 
material some- 
thing, how his ears 
lift and open to 
their widest. The 
stranger has come 
about a dog. The 
ears resume their 
usual aspect, and 
the gaze returns to 
the same far-away 
nothing as before. 

But this unhand- 
some ruffian has 
waited so long, and 
has been disap- 
pointed so often, 
that he shows signs 
of losing the 
placidity proper to 
his nature. Being 
an unusually good 
mouser, he has a 
certain contempt for such cats as have 
nothing to recommend them but their 
appearance ; and the natural savagery of 


unrecognised genius is aggravated by the 
sight of white rats and mice across the 
shop, where he can't reach them and prove 
his capabilities. So he makes vicious snaps 
and dabs at boys who poke their fingers 
between the bars, and will probably swear 
horribly at the next lady customer who 
says she doesn't want that horrid-looking 

This is not a place where any animal 
fond of a quiet life would come of its own 
accord. Here is a most respectable owl, 
whose ideas of the order of things arc 
seriously outraged by its surroundings. A 
quiet wing-stretch at night is out of the 
question, because of the cage ; and any 
attempt at going to sleep during the day in 
that whirl of yells, crows, barks, and light 
is — well, there ! But he has been put high 
up in the darkest available corner by a con- 
siderate tradesman, and makes a shift for 
forty winks now and again. He is justly 
indignant at things 
in general, and 
meditates upon 
them in solemn 
sulkiness in the in- 
tervals of his little 
naps. As the 
proper centre of 
the universe, he 
contemplates the 
rebellion of its 
conditions against 
his comfort with 
gloomy anger un- 
til he falls asleep. 
Whenever he does 
this a customer is 
sure to arrive, and 
wish to look at 
something hard by 
his corner. The 
dealer extends a 
match to an adja- 
cent gas-jet, and, 
with a pop, a great 
flame springs into 
being a foot from 
the owl's beak. 
Promptly one eye 
opens, and projects 
upon that gaslight 
a glare of puckered 
indignation. You 
observe, he never 
opens but one eye — the eye nearer his 
object of attention. " Why take unneces- 
sary trouble ? " reflects the sage ; and, 



sooth to tell, in that one eye 
gathered enough of wrath to put 
out any flame produced by any 
but the most im- 
pudent of gas 
companies. And 
though this flame 
Hdc unaffected, 
still let us learn 
from this fea- 
thered philoso- 
pher, when the 
world gets out 
of joint, and all 
things tempt us 
to anger — to wink 
the other eye. 

Other birds 
here, besides the 
owl, like a quiet 
life, and don't 
get it. All such 
pigeons as lie 
within boy-reach 
are among these, 
as well as some 
within m a n - 
reach. It is 
notorious that no 
pigeon can show 
his points, or even 
his breed, pro- 
perly, unless stimulated and prodded there- 
unto with clucks, whistles, sticks, and fingers. 
"Bill," says a boy, " look at this'n ; tumbler, 
ain't he ? " and he does w^hat he can to make 
the victim tumble by means of a long lead 
pencil brought against the legs. " No," 
observes his companion, sagely, " he's a 
fantail, only he won't fan " ; and thereupon 
tries a prod with a stick. This failing to 
produce the desired effect, it seems 
evident that the luckless bird must be a 
pouter, so that another prod becomes 
necessary, to make him pout. But he won't 
pout, and, as he won't make the least 
attempt to carry the lead pencil, even when 
thumped with the stick, obviously he 
can't be a carrier. The shopkeeper coming 
out very hurriedly at this stage of the 
diagnosis, the consultation is promptly 
removed to some distance off". More pre- 
tentious connoisseurs than these contribute 
an occasional poke, with an idea of getting 
the bird to show his height ; and, alto- 
gether, from the retiring pigeon's point of 
view, Leadenhall Market might be a less 
exciting place. 

But some pigeons are used to excitement, 


and no boy who whistles along 
through the Market is half 
sharp enough to beat them. 
Look about you, 
young and green 
pigeon - fancier, 
and see. if, per- 
chance, there be 
a bird about here 
which you re- 
member at some 
time to have 
loved, bought, 
and lost — all, per- 
haps, in a single 
day. If so, he is 
probably one of 
the sort I mean. 
He lives a gay 
and fluttering life, 
staying a day or 
two with every- 
body, but always 
returning to one 
place. He is what 
a fancier, careless 
of his speech, 
will call a " dead 
homer," in spite 
of his being so 
very much alive 
and locomotive 
that human sight, week after week, fails 
to follow his course. He is a man-of- 
the-world sort of pigeon, this. Knows 
his way about London — ay, and any 




amount of the country round it — as well 
as ever did Mr. Sam Weller. He knows 
people too, and their little ways ; with 
the number of owners he has had, a very 
slug must become a knowing card. Look 
at the innocent old chap. If yovi be un- 
skilled in avian physiognomy, what more 
simple and guileless creature could you 
carry home from here, with the certainty 
of keeping him obediently with you for 
ever ? But he who once has owned and 
lost him sees within the eye of rectitude 
the wink of absquatulation. The rogue 
recognises his old buyer 
again, but makes no 
sign ; so skilled in 
human nature is he, 
and so contemptuous 
of it, that he allows 
for the offchance of be- 
ing bought again, and 
taken to a place which 
will revive old memo- 
ries as well as bring a 
change of air and diet, 
and from which the 
road back is familiar. 
For there is an owner 
to whom this otherwise 
fickle bird is ever true, 
and from Avhom no- 
thing short of solitary 
confinement can keep 
him, an owner who 
fully reciprocates his 
affection, and receives 
him back after each 
excursion with a de- 
light which springs 
from the cornermost 
depths of his trousers 

But the chief article of living mxerchan- 
dise here is the dog ; so much so that 
the customary greeting of the dealers ij--, 
" Want to buy a little dawg, sir ? " regard- 
less of the rest of their stock. You observe 
that they always mention a little dog, 
although dogs of all sizes, kinds, colours, 
and shapes are here to buy. This may 
possibly be because just now the fashion 
largely runs to little dogs — fox-terriers and 
the like ; but I rather think it is said with 
a view of conveying, by a wily sophism, an 
idea of the pecuniary smallness of the 
suggested transaction— fiust as a tradesman 
talks of a " little bill " or a card-sharper of 
a " little game." Once having engaged the 
victim by the administration of thi§ fallacy 



— well, it only remains to do business with 
him, the manner of which business it is 
easy to learn by the practical expedient of 
buying a dog. 

Nervous men do not like buying dogs at 
Leadenhall Market. "I'll show you the 
dog to suit yovi, sir," says the dealer ; "just 
step this way," that way being into the 
shop. But at the door of the shop stands, 
sits, or hangs about on the end of a chain 
a certain bulldog of uninviting aspect. He 
isn't demonstrative — never barks or snaps ; 
he just hangs his mouth and looks at you. 
It is wonderful to ob- 
serve the amount of 
shyness acquired by a 
man not naturally bash-- 
ful by the mere help 
of this dog's presence ; 
at times it really seems 
a pity that some of it 
cannot be made to last. 
People who have never 
been known to refuse 
an invitation before 
hesitate at that of the 
dealer ; because, even 
suppose Cerberus 
passed, the shrinking 
visitor must, with al) 
the nonchalance and 
easy grace possible, 
walk the gauntlet be- 
^ tween two rows of other 
dogs, straining to get 
at each other across the 
avenue, at the further 
end of which stands the 
dealer. After which he 
must be prepared to 
hear that tne dog to 
suit him is being kept 
on the roof of the house, at the other 
end of many black and crooked stairs, 
also populated, in unexpected places, with 
dogs ; and, possibly, after his disastrous 
chances, moving accidents, and hairbreadth 
'scapes, to find that the dog doesn't suit 
him at all. 

Every living creature here knows that it 
stands for sale, and speculates upon its 
prospective owner ; that has already been 
said. Of course, the dogs show it most, 
and of the dogs the fox-terriers more than 
any. Come up a side alley, where a window 
gives light to a bench carrying a dozen. 
There they sit, ears acock, heads aside, eyes 
and noses directed intently towards the 
door, You are standing within two f^et of 



them, but they 
don't see you — 
they are watching 
for the next cus- 
tomer in at the 
door. Yovi rap at the window or call ; not 
one takes the trouble even to turn his 
head. You are not a customer, and it is 
only with customers that they have busi- 
ness. Personally I don't believe that all 
this is due to an interest in the visitors ; 
I know the raffish, rat-catching ways of 
these fox-terriers, and am confident that 
they have bets among themselves — some- 
thing in the nature of a sweepstake — as to 
who will be taken away next. Or perhaps 
each of these anxious little dogs is straining 
his eyes, and his chain, and his neck after 
that master who has been absent for many, 
many days, and who imist come back to 
him soon — who caii't have deserted him. 

Certain men are seen hereabout whom 
nobody would expect to see anywhere else, 
and about whom I have a theory. These 
men are the exceptions that prove the Dar- 
winian doctrine of the evolution of the 
human species through the monkey. In 
their descent from the primordial proto- 
plasm they must have boldly skipped all the 
species between dog and man, so that now 
they carry as much external affinity to their 
last quadruped ancestors as other people do 
to the monkeys. Indeed, when you come 

to know them, you find 
them to be men of such 
enterprise and resource 
that this skipping busi- 
ness is just what they 
would have done with 
half a chance. Some keep 
shops, some help the 
shopkeepers, and some 
are free-lances. There is 
"" not a dog in the whole 
world that they will not 
undertake to get for you, 
at the right price, at a 
day's notice ; if you were 
to demand the Dog of 
Montargis they would 
undertake to fetch it, 
even though they were 
driven to lie about its identity when pro- 
duced. There is no end to their enterprise, 
and scarcely any to their number of big 
pockets. Out of these pockets stick pup- 
pies' heads, until the whole creature assumes 
the appearance of a sort of canine kangaroo 
broken out in a general eruption of pouches, 
with young ones in each. They are very 
good fellows, some of these, as a man with 

"buy a little DAWG, SlR?i 




any of the characteristics of a good dog 
must be, so that I mean no harm when 
I say that I have seen many a wire muzzle 
which would fit the features of some of 
them admirably, were man as unkind to 
man by police regulation as to dog. And 
I am convinced that the reason they all 
wear large coats is to conceal little tails — 
rudimentary, perhaps, but still tails. This 
survival from primeval ages is not at all 
an affliction — on the contrary, a comfort. 
They quietly wag them when they have 
" done '' a cus- 
tomer rather 
more than usu- 
ally brown. This 
while preserving 
faces of the 
severest virtue. 

Do they still 
sell silkworms in 
Leadenhall Mar- 
ket ? I fear not : 
I miss the signs. 
In some of the 
old alleys the 
privilege was ex- 
tended to boys 
of purchasing 
the eggs — little 
brown specks 
spread over a bit 
of paper — which 
were kept in a 
box in a warm 
place and nev^er 
to any- 
I must 
pints of 





these eggs ; the 

dealers probably 

had them in by 

the peck, for I 

verily believe they were all turnip-seed. 

Singing birds are not so numerous here 
as they used to be — they have migrated, I 
believe, with a considerable reinforcement 
from Seven Dials, to Club Row ; but an in- 
convenient and amusing rascal such as a 
jackdaw or a magpie is easy to find. If any 
man live a sad life — a life environed with 
constitutional blues — let him buy a jackdaw. 
The mere sight of a jackdaw scratching his 
head, with his leg cocked over behind his 
wing, is enough to cure a leaden indigestion. 
But when, after having one wing cut, for 
the first time he attempts to fly — well, the 
recollection brings a stitch in the side. 


Now and again, during the hunting 
season, one may see here a fox, waiting 
to be bought, bagged, and set going before 
some pack not very far from London, where 
a find is out of the question. He is an 
impudent rascal, and will probably be 
hunted a good many times before encoun- 
tering a kill. Maybe he has been here 
before ; in that case, he has a poor opinion 
of human creatures generally, and rather 
enjoys his situation. He has just run up 
to town for a day or two, to see a little life, 
and presently will go back again 
and take a little exercise with the 
hounds, to put himself into con- 
dition. Then, perhaps, when he 
, tires of country life, he will look 

up again for a bit, and take a 
little more dissi- 
pation. It's very 
pleasant, as a 
change, to live 
here under cover 
and be waited 
j upon, but he 
\ ;j wouldn't think of 
; * staying more than 
if a few days — that 
p would bore him. 
.1' A singular pro- 

perty of this place 
is the improve- 
ment effected in 
J j the shape, breed, 
-^k' .J points, and 
general value of 
an animal by the 
atmosphere. If a 
man take a dog 
there to sell, he 
will find that in 
the opinion of an 
' expert dealer, who 
ought to know, it 
is too leggy, poor in the coat, bad in the 
markings, wrong in the size, out in the 
curve of the tail, too snipey in the head, 
outrageous in the ears, and altogether rather 
dear at a gift. But go in there a day or 
two afterwards to buy that dog, and you 
will be astounded to hear of the improve- 
ment that so short a sojourn has effected. 
It has good, clean, stocky legs, a wonderful 
coat, perfect marks, correct size to a shade, 
a tail with just the exact sweep, a good, 
broad head, unequalled ears, and altogether 
is a preposterous sacrifice at fifteen guineas. 
Marvellous, isn't it ? 

Since they are here offered for sale, one 



may assume that boys still keep 
guinea-pigs, although for the 
advanced boy of to-day such pets 
may well ■ seem too slow. They 
are most unintelligent, eat their 
young, and, so long as plenty of 
parsley is forthcoming, think yery 
little about their owners. Once 
having failed to hold one up by 
the tail till his eyes dropped out, 
one would expect a boy's interest 
in these animals to vanish, but a 
boy's will is the wind's will, and 
the thoughts of youth are rum, 
rum thoughts, as Longfellow 
ought to have said. Wherefore 
they still keep guinea - pigs. 
Probably they still keep green 
lizards and snakes ; they used to 
do so. A friend of mine has to 
try ta earn his living as a bar- 
rister, which is a very sad thing. 
It is all owing to his keeping 
snakes as a boy, and letting a 
few of them get adrift in the 
house of a maiden aunt. She 
left the premises at a moment's notice, and 
sold the furniture. This was only funny. 





Then she left all her money to a missionary 

society, and that was serious. 

LeadenhaJl Market, as one 
used to know it, is going, 
going ; but let us hope it 
will never be quite gone. 
Long may the living mer- 
chandise resist the inroads 
of serried ranks of hooks, 
whereon hang many, many 
miles of plucked geese and 
turkeys ; birds of no feather 
flocking together to minister 
to man's alimentary desires, 
instead of to his love for 
those weaker creatures which 
are so many ages behind him' 
in the tale of evolution, or 
which have branched off by 
the way ! 



REAK ! craivk ! 
And then thud ! 
spb'sh ! splash ! 
and a horrible 
echoing, whisper- 
ing sound, as the 
water drawn up 
by the two men at the winch rose some 
ten feet higher, where each bucket in turn 
was caught by a check and reversed, to 
pour its contents into a huge cistern to 
supply the drinking water at the Castle. 

I, Charles Lester, had climbed the down 
after my early morning visit to the sea be- 
neath the cliffs, where a plunge down into 
the clear depths had sent an electric thrill 
through me. There I had swum and dived 
for ten minutes, dressed in the warm sun- 
shine, and tramped back over the cliff slope 
where Lord Gvirtleigh's flock of Southdowns 
were nibbling the short dewy herbage and 
giving their mutton a gamey flavour by 
crunching up the thousands of tiny snail- 
shells as well. 

I was satisfied with the look of the flock, 
laughed to myself as I thought what a 
farmer, bailiff, and general man of business 
I was growing in dear old Dick's interest, 
and had then gone round so as to pass 
through the gardens and let the men see 
I was abovit. 

" I know they'll call me a nigger driver," 
I said to myself, " but they've all had too 
easy a time of it during Dick's minority, 
and things have been shamefully neglected." 
And then I mused on my plans respecting 
the management of the estate as I went 
back to the Castle, making up my mind that 
as Gurtleigh had placed everything in my 
hands, I would have none but good men 
about the place. Everything should be 
honest and above board ; and so it fell out 
that I was walking back to my room, 

George Mawilt-e Fknn. 

through the yard, at seven o'clock that 
bright summer morning, meaning to do a 
couple of hours' writing and account 
reading, when I heard the squealing and 
creaking of the wheel in the well-house 
with its high-pitched roof. 

I turned sharply, entering the great stone- 
paved, wet place, where a man was grinding 
away on either side of the opening, and 
came plump — that's the correct word, and 
his appearance justified it — upon Brayson, 
the butler, standing there, slowly sipping a 
tumbler of water, and looking as clean- 
shaven and smooth as if he were by the 
sideboard in the dining-room, waiting at one 
of the meals. 

" Good morning, sir." 

" Morning, Brayson. Stop ! Look here, 
my men, why, in heaven's name, don't you 
grease that wheel ? " 

The men ceased turning, and the one 
nearest touched his forehead. 

" Be no good, sir. Her squeal again 
dreckerly, all on account o' the water." 

" Then, grease it again, or oil it, or some- 
thing ! " 

" Never have been greased," said the man 
on the other side, slowly, and in a way 
which seemed to say " What business is it 
of yours ? " 

" Then let it be done before to-morrow 
morning," I said sharply. " The whole of 
the machine is eaten up with rust. Where's 
your common sense, men ? Why, your 
work will be as easy again. — Do you do 
this often, Brayson ? " I said. 

" Every morning, sir," he replied obsequi- 
ously. " Winter and summer, I always 
have a glass of this water first thing. 
Finest drink in the world for your health. 
Will you try a glass, sir ? " 

" Well— yes." 

Before I had finished speaking, he wa& 



rinsing the tumbler in a freshly filled tub ; 
then, taking a clean napkin from his pocket, 
he wiped and polished it, finally, as one 
of the buckets rose out of the black, 
vaporous depths of the opening enclosed 
by the framework of the winch, he signed 
to the men to stop, and dipped the glass 
full, holding it for a few minutes in the open 
doorway, while a frosty dew rapidly formed 
on the outside of thettimbler. 

"There, sir," he said solemnly, and he 
handed it to me as if it were a glass of his 
lordship's choicest champagne. 

I took the glass and drank its contents. 

"Capital water, Brayson." 

" Finest glass in the country, sir." 

"'there, sir,' he said solemnly. 

" And nice and cool." 
" Always the same, sir, winter or summer. 
Comes from so deep down. It's just a 
hundred feet." 

" Now, after the dry weather ? " 
" Never alters, sir ; just keeps to the 
same height, and there's about eighty foot 
of water down there ; never-failing supply." 
" Humph ; cut right down the solid 
chalk," I said, as I gazed into the black 
depths of the huge shaft, which was about 
ten feet in diameter, and breathed the cool, 
damp air which rose. 

" Yes, sir, and she's never foul," said the 
man nearest to me. " I've been down when 
they mended the bottom wheel. Can't do 
that at Sir Romney s 
place; two men 
:hoked there only 
last year." 

"Year afore," 
growled the other 

" Oh, weer it ? So 
t weer." 

Then the winding 
ivent on as I peered 
lown into the gloomy 
place, listening to the 
dull, heavy plunge of 
the buckets as they 
reached the water, 
and then to the echo- 
ing, splashing, and 
hollow musical sound 
as the water streamed 
and dripped back 
when they rose. 

" Clumsy arrange- 
ment," I said, as I 
turned away with a 
shudder; for the place 
was creepy and ter- 
rible and strange. 
" There ought to be 
a force-pump turned 
by a pony or a don- 
key, as at Caris- 
brooke. Oh ! by the 
way, Brayson," I con- 
tinued, as I was cross- 
ing the yard toward 
the gates, " I want to 
go over the wine- 

" The wine-cellar, 
sir ? " he said, and 
his fat face changed 



" Yes, to take stock. His lordship talks 
of laying down a fresh svipply. Have your 
cellar book ready, and we'll begin at once." 
There was a slight dew on the man's face, 
or I fancied there was, and I said to myself, 
as I went round to the front : 

" Master Brayson has been helping him- 
self to a few bottles of port, and I've got to 
find him out. Deuced unpleasant, all this 
running tilt at the servants ; I wish I had 
gone on reading for the law." 


After breakfast I rang for Brayson, and 
began my inspection of the wine-cellar. 

That took up the greater part of four 
days. Result : I had Brayson into the little 
library which was given up to me as my 
office, Lord Gurtleigh having merely re- 
served to himself the right to come of an 
evening and smoke a pipe. 

Brayson came in looking very pale and 
sodden. In those four days he had lost 
flesh ; and, as he stood before me, the miser- 
able wretch perspired profusely and was 

"Now, look here, Brayson," I said gravely, 
'' you are aware that Lord Gurtleigh has 
placed everything in my hands." 

and for the past seven years you have had 
sole charge of that valuable cellar of wine 
which has been shamefully plundered. 
What have you to say ? " 

His lips moved, but no words came. 

" Nothing ? Well, I have a little to say. 
Give me your keys. I shall have the plate 
examined at once. His lordship will be 
extremely loth to have you prosecuted, but 
you must leave here ; and I can only say, 
how could you be so mad as to throw away 
so good a post ? " 

" Oh, for God's sake forgive me, sir ! " he 
cried passionately, and crying now like a 
child. " I'll confess everything, sir. The 
plate is all right, sir — I swear it is, sir ; but 
I did take a little wine. 

" A little, man ! hundreds of dozens are 

" Yes, sir, it's true, sir ; but have mercy 
on me, sir. I'll turn over a new leaf, sir, 
and be the best servant his lordship could 
have, sir. I did sell some wine, sir ; I was 
tempted, sir. No one ever wanted to know 
about it before in all these years." 

" And now the day of reckoning has 

" Yes, sir ; but I will mind, sir. For 
Heaven's sake forgive me, sir. I've a wife 

"for HFAVhN S sake FORGIVE ME, SIR.' 

" Yes, sir, his lordship told me so." 

" Exactly. Well, I am very sorry to have 

to exercise my prerogative so soon ; but I 

must make an example. You were in the 

late Lord Gurtleigh's service fifteen years. 

and family, sir ; and it's ruin to me. You 
know it is. I can never get another place 
with a character like that. I'll be the best 
of servants, sir. I'll be your slave, sir, and 
I'll confess everything, sir, and show you 



what's been going on in the stables, and at 
the farm, and in the garden, and about the 
hares and fezzans, sir.'' 

" I can find out for myself," I said, sternly; 
" and Lord Gurtleigh wants an honest but- 
ler, not a contemptible tale-bearing spy." 

" Of course, sir ; of course. But, Mr. 
Lester, sir, have mercy on me, sir. Indeed 
I'll turn over a new leaf." 

"Then go and turn it over, man, and 
don't grovel before me in that way. Let 
me see that you do repent. But, mind this, 
if the slightest act of dishonesty comes to 
my ken, there will be no more mercy." 

" God bless you, sir ; thank you, sir," he 
sobbed out. "I , I ." 

He could say no more ; but broke down, 
and stood with his face working. 

'' Sit down, Brayson, till you are more 
composed,'' I said, quietly. " There is cold 
water in that carafe ; take some. Don't let 
the servants see you in this condition." 

" Thank you, sir, thank yovi," he whis- 
pered hoarsely, and the 
glass tapped against the 
bottle as he poured out: 
some water and drank it. 

" Weak, drinks more 
than is good for him — 
excepting the cold water 
from the well every morn- 
ing to steady his nerves,'* 
I said to myself as soon as 
Brayson had gone. "Well, 
I hope he will turn ovxt 
right, and that I have 
made a friend." 


The months glided on, 
and after a great deal of anxiety I could 
honestly feel that I was gettmg Gviftleigh's 
little kingdom into a fair state, a\ hen oae 
night we had a shock. I A\as m the little 
library, poring over some papers sent down 
by his lordship's solicitor, about which a 
reply was needed. I had been speaking to 
Dick about it over our coffee, and he had 
Veplied, "Well, you know best Don't 
bother me ! Go and get it done, and then 
we'll have a quiet cigar. I'll join }^ou in 
an hour." 

He joined me in half that time, dashing 
into the library excitedly. 

"Charley, old man ! " he cried. " Quick, 
there's something wrong ! " 

"What ! " I cried as excitedly. " Lady 
Florry " 

" Yes," he panted, " went up to her 
dre«sing-room. The door was locked. 
There must be " 

" Burglars ! " I cried. " Quick, call the 
servants ! Go up and guard that door, and 
send someone round to me ! " 

" Where are you going ? " 

" Under your windows," I cried, throwinp 
open the one at the end of the room ; and, 
springing out, I ran round to the front ol 
the house, fully expecting to see one of the 
farm ladders reared up against the broad 
stone balcony which ran along the first 
floor. There it was, in the dim light, which 
was sufficiently strong for me to see that 
the window was open. 

I did not hesitate a moment. " Burglars 
are always cowards," I reasoned, and I ran 
up the ladder and dashed to the window, 
thinking, though, that I should be awk- 
wardly situated if our visitors had revolvers. 

But no shot welcomed me as I stepped 
in, took a little match-box frpm my pocket. 

I KAN UP TtIK l./\Dl)t:K, 



struck a light, and held it above my head. 
Nothing to be seen, so I stepped forward, 
lit the candles on the toilette-table, and 
peered about. 

" Hullo ! " crieJ a voice behind me, and 
Lord Gurtleigh sprang into the room. 
"Anyone there? " 

'' No," I said, " we are too late." 

A minute's search proved that I was 
right, and then we turned to the door, 
which was carefully bolted on the inside ; 
and, as we threw it open, there stood Bray- 
son, the footman, and a couple of grooms, 
while voices behind us told that help was 
ready below, the gardeners and stablemen 
having been called up. 

'' Mind ! " I shouted, running to the win- 
dow," keep back on the grass ; there may be 
footprints there — I shall want to examine." 

Then. I stood thinking for a moment 
before issuing my orders as promptly as I 
could, sending grooms off mounted to 
summon the police, and then ride on to the 
railway station, and ask for help to detain 
any suspicious-looking people ; while the 
gardeners went to scour the grounds and 
rouse the keepers, watchers, and people at 
the nearest farms. 

It all proved labour in vain, and towards 
morning I sat fagged out — after despatching 
a telegram to the county town and another 
to London — talking to Lord and Lady 

"I wouldn't care twopence," said the 
former, " but they've got jewels that are 
priceless. All poor Florry's pearls, which 
came from the Guicowar of Badjar Aman, 
and the old family diamonds." 

" Don't fret, Dick, dear," said Lady 
Gurtleigh, quietly ; " it's a great pity, but 
I will not mind. I daresay Charles Lester 
will get them back for me." 

"Bless your faith," I cried, unable to re- 
press a smile, in spite of my chagrin ; " what 
a wonderful man you two think I am ! " 

" Well," said my old college chum, 
givdng the table a rap with his fist, "won- 
derful or no, I do say this, if anyone can 
get them back it's dear old Charley here." 

" Indeed ! " I said, " then my dear Lady 
Florry, try and be resigned, for your jewels 
are gone for ever, unless the detectives can 
run the scoundrels down." 

" What, have you sent for the detec- 
tives ? " cried Gurtleigh. 

" Of course." 

"How delightful,'' cried Lady Gurtleigh, 
clapping her hands, " it will be like reading 
a romance." 

" Humph !" ejaculated Gurtleigh, "she's 
not going to break her heart about the 

" I should think not, indeed, dear,'' she 
cried, merrily. " They haven't killed us to 
get the nasty things. There now, you two 
poor tired creatures are to smoke a cigar 
each, and I'll ring for some coffee.'' 

She rang, and Brayson appeared looking 
sadly troubled and bearing a tray. 

" I took the liberty, my lady," he began. 

" Oh, Brayson, how good of you ! " 

" Yes," said Lord Gurtleigh ; " but, I say 
Brayson ; you should have brought the 
brandy too." 

" I did, my lord, I have it outside here on 
a tray." 

"AH your doing, Charley," said Gurt- 
leigh as soon as we were alone, "that chap's 
getting quite a moral, as they say down 
here. Here's to you, dear boy, and I hope 
Florry is right.'' 

The police were soon on the spot, and 
at once created a revolution among the 
servants, who threatened to leave in a 
body on finding that they were suspected. 
The upper-housemaid being particularly 
demonstrative and full of angry demands 
that the police sergeant should search her 

But they did not trace the thieves, neither 
did they make any discoveries through the 
pawnbrokers or diamond merchants, and 
the months rolled on, and it was summer 
once again. 

" It isn't your fault, old man," Gurtleigh 
said to me one day when they were down 
at the Castle again, after spending the 
winter in Italy, " and, look here, I taboo the 
topic. Whenever we meet, you begin going 
on about those confounded jewels. I don't 
mind now, and Florry doesn't mind, so let 
them rest. Anyone would think they were 
yours, you make so much fuss." 

But I could only think about those lost 
stones, and Lady Gurtleigh's words that if 
they were found it would be by me. How 
I had pondered over their loss, and sus- 
pected different people, but only to feel 
guilty afterwards of misjudging them. For 
again and again I had felt convinced that 
the theft had been committed by someone 
who knew the place and our habits ; hence 
I argued that it must have been one of the 
out-door servants — groom, gardener, farm 
labourer, or perhaps even a keeper. I grew 
more convinced of this as time glided by ; 
for it seemed to me that those jewels must 
be buried or hidden somewhere, with the 



thief waiting his time till he could find an 
opportunity for disposing of them safely. 
I don't know how it was, but the gardener 
excited most of my suspicion, and I used to 
go about the grounds at all hours ponder- 
ing upon likely places where they could 
have been buried — under newly planted 
trees, in vineries, under forcing frames, in 
pots or tubs in the conservatories. Then 
the labourers, the men who could be 
handy with ladders, had their turn in my 
suspicions, and, with my monomania in- 
creasing, I wandered about haystacks and 
farm buildings, peered under thatches 
and eaves, and pondered over the tiles and 
stones of floors. 

" Those jewels never reached London ! " 
I used to declare to myself as I wandered 
about with my walking-stick (one made of 
steel, heavily varnished, and so sharp at the 
point that I could use it as a probe to thrust 
into the ground amongst roots, or into 
stacks or thatches, in the hope of discover- 
ing the hidden gems). There were times 
when I told myself it was all imagination, 
especially when I Avas wearied out and felt 
that I had searched everywhere, and one 
night I thought that I would follow Lord 
Gurtleigh's advice, and give the matter up. 

Result : I woke the next morning, and 
went down to the sea for my plunge in the 
deep hole beneath the cliffs determined to 
proceed, and with a peculiar belief that 
sooner or later I should find those gems. 


A GREAT change had resulted from my 
management, I must own. The people 
about the place had found out that I was 
not to be trifled with, and it was quite 
cheering to find how they settled down to 
the work. But I did not relax my vigilance. 
I was out early every morning and about 
the place, fine weather or foul, and for 
months past I had encountered smiles where 
there used to be scowls. One bright June 
morning I descended the cliff and reached 
the great chalk rock, where I undressed, 
stood for a few moments with the early 
sunshine full upon me and reflected from 
the high cliff, as I gazed down into the 
dark depths of the clear water before 
making my dive. Then I leaped right out, 
parted the cool, bracing fluid, and dived 
right down to see how long I could stay 
below before rising again, and repeating the 
performance, feeling for the moment what 
an excellent diver I was, and directly after 

how feeble my efforts were as compared 
with those of a seal. 

" I ought to have gone right to the 
bottom," I said to myself, as I was dressing ; 
" who knows but what the jewels may have 
been thrown in there. Not a bad hiding- 
place,'' I mused, "but no, not likely." 

I walked back sharply, and, as of old, the 
rushing and splash in the well-house saluted 
me as I crossed the yard, thinking that if it 
had not been for my old friend's heavy loss 
I should have persuaded him to let me 
design new machinery for raising the water 

Brayson's words had so impressed me that 
it had grown into a habit to take my glass 
of cold water after my bath, and one was 
kept on a shelf on purpose for my use, one 
of the men thrusting in the winch-stop 
when a bucket was level, and filling the 
glass as a matter of course as soon as I was 
seen crossing the yard. 

That morning, as I stood in the well- 
house, sipping the clear, cold fluid, and 
listening to the trickling and echoing splash- 
ing of the falling water, I gave quite a start, 
and involuntarily peered down into the 
horrible -looking black hole. 

The next minute I had tossed off the 
remains of my draught, and hurried away, 
trembling lest my excitement should have 
been noted by the men ; for, like an inspira- 
tion, the thought had come to me, " The 
jewels are hidden down there ! " 

Instead of turning into the gardens, as I 
generally did, I hurried in, and up to my 
own room, to finish dressing, but wiih my 
cheeks burning and temples throbbing, 
calling myself fool, madman ; telling my- 
self that it was impossible, improbable to a 
degree ; that ' there were a million more 
likely places for the jewels to have been 
hidden, and that to throw them down there 
was to cast them away for ever. 

But all these arguments were vain against 
the hourly growing feeling that I had at 
last hit upon the spot where the stolen 
gems were hidden. 

Why had I not thought of that place 
before ? I don't know. Perhaps it was 
too simple, perhaps too impossible. Suflfice 
it, I never had till now, and the idea had 
suddenly become a fever, which Avent on 
increasing for quite a week, when, unable 
to combat the feeling longer, I gave way. 

" There must be something in it," I said 
to myself, " or I should not be haunted in 
this fashion. Superstition ? Perhaps ; but 
whether it is that, or madness, or folly, I 




shall never rest till I have searched that 

As soon as I had made up my mind to 
this, my first thought was to consult Lord 
Gurtleigh, but I cast that out at once. 

*' He'll ridicule it," I said, " I can't make 
him feel as I do ; " and, although I would 
have gladly given anything for a confidant, 
I felt that I must act alone, and keep my 
actions hidden — no easy task — from every- 
one about the place. 

It was like a fit of insanity, quite a mono- 
mania ; but I was determined, and from that 
hour began to think out my plans. 

The simplest thing would have been to 
empty the well ; but that was impossible. 
No amount of drawing water had the 
slightest effect, for the diggers had tapped 
the huge reservoirs extending beneath the 

mighty chalk range running east and west 
of the vast spur upon which the castle 
stood dominating the sea. There could 
be no draining the well, and, even had 
it been possible, I should not have felt 
disposed to propose such a thing ; for 
I wanted to keep my 
actions secret in case it 
was all a fancy engen- 
dered by the sight of 
the place. 

That night, with a 
feeling of certainty that 
I had as good as found 
the jewels which had 
been hidden there for the 
reasons I had already 
settled, I made my way 
to the well-house after 
everyone had retired for 
the night. 

I had provided myself 
with a lantern, matches, 
and a reel, upon Avhich 
were a hundred yards of 
salmon line from Lord 
Gurtleigh's tackle, and, 
lastly, a heavy plummet, 
beneath which I hung 
a little grapnel formed 
of hooks securely bound 
back to back. 

The place looked very 
grim and repellent as I 
carefully closed the doors. ' 
All Avas silent and black, 
and when a drop of 
water dripped from the 
great cistern overhead it 
fell with a splash far 
below, which echoed from the slimy sides of 
the well in a peculiar way that was almost 
s:artling. But I was too hot upon my 
project, and, carefully lighting my lantern 
in one corner, I tried to keep it covered, 
over till I had attached the end of the line 
to the lantern-ring, and swung it down 
over the side into the well. 

" Nobody is likely to be watching the 
place," I thought, as I lowered the light for 
ten or a dozen feet ; and then, as I looked 
over the rail, I began to search for what I 
expected to find, to wit, a string attached 
somewhere to the side — a string that I had 
settled in my own mind would be attached 
to the packet lowered down. 

But I walked slowly round, examining 
carefully, and specially about the massive 
oaken cross beams which supported the 




bucket wheel, and there was no result. I 
could see nothing but the stout rope, which 
rose up from the darkness, passed over the 
wheel by the cistern, and went down again 
into the black depths — two ropes, as it 
were, three feet apart, about the centre of 
the great shaft, nothing more. 

I drew the lantern a little higher, then 
lowered it ; and again more and more, but 
there was no string, and, bitterly disap- 
pointed, I let the light go down and down, 
stopping several times, and listening, in 
fear lest the clicking made by the salmon 
winch might draw attention to my task ; 
and at last the echoing sound seemed so 
loud that I twisted the line about the railing, 
and stole to the door and listened. 

All was still, and I went back to peer 
down at the lantern swinging softly to and 
fro fully fifty feet down. And now, after 
loosening the line, I let it run out with the 
lantern descending, past the buckets, till I 
caught a faint gleam just beneath it, and 
then I could just see part of a wheel 
standing out of the black water, the beams 
which held it being beneath the surface, 
the light burning clearly and showing that 
there was no foul air. 

As I rapidly wound the lantern up, I saw 
once more the two buckets about halfway 
down. Then, as I went on winding, they 
seemed to be descending, but of course it 
was the lantern coming up, and directly 
after I had it in my hand, vmtied it, and 
attached my grapnel. This I held over the 
well, and the weight ran it out rapidly. I 
heard it strike the water, and then on and 
on it went to Avhat seemed to be a 
tremendous depth, before it touched 

Then I began to drag here and there, 
pulling it in all directions, expecting every 
moment to feel a check, and when at last I 
did, my heart seemed to leap ; but, as I 
lifted, it was only to find that a hook had 
caught against the bottom. 

I kept this up for about a couple of hours, 
passing from one side of the draw wheels to 
ihe other after hauling up ; but my efforts 
were in vain. I hooked nothing, and at 
last, in despair at my ill-success, I wound up, 
meaning to put the work off for another 
night, when all at once there was a sharp 
check, which nearly snatched the wheel 
out of my hand, and I knew that I had 
caught against one of the cross-beams that 
supported the lower wheel beneath the 
water. After a great deal of snatching and 
tugging the line was free, but at the ex- 

pense of many yards left below, and my 
plummet and grapnel left sticking in the 

" Enough for to-night," I said to myself, 
opening my lantern and blowing out the 

Then throwing back the doors, I stood • 
listening, fancying I had heard a step, but 
all was silent, and I crossed the yard, let 
myself in, and went to bed, but not to 
sleep. For I lay tossing from side to side, 
more cd^nvinced than ever that the jewels 
lay at the bottom of that well. 

Why ? I don't know : I only tell you 
what I thought, and, though I had dragged 
so unsuccessfully, and felt that I was not 
likely to recover them in that very primi- 
tive way, feeling as I did that the beams 
would prevent me from thoroughly search- 
ing the bottom, I was more determined than 
ever, and by sunrise had made up my mind 
what to do. 


I ROSE that morning an hour earlier than 
usual, and went down for my customary 

As I reached the shore I searched about 
till I had found a couple of chalk boulders 
to my taste, and carried these to the top of 
the rock off which I regularly made my 
plunge, and laid them there. 

" An Englishman ought to be as clever 
as a nigger," I said as I undressed, and I 
stooped and picked up one of the stones and . 
gazed down into the deep water. " Seems 
a mad thing to do," I muttered ; and then, 
feeling that if I hesitated I shcvdd fail, I 
took my leap, struck the water with a tre- 
mendous splash, and then went down like 
an arrow, lower and lower till quite in 
dismay I unclasped my hands from the 
stone and rose rapidly to the surface. " It's 
easy enough," I thought, as my head shot 
into the sunshine ; and, climbing back, I 
took the other stone, contriving to glide off 
from close to the surface with the weight 
nipped between my knees. 

This time I went down feet first till the 
water began to grow dark, when the stone 
slipped, and I again shot up, rather breatlr- 
less, but encouraged by my success. I tried 
that experiment for half a dozen times more 
and continued it for a week, morning after 
morning, providing myself now with short 
lengths of line to tie round the stones to 
form a handle, and practising till I could 
seize a stone, plunge in with it, and let it drag 
me rapidly to the bottom, where I loosened 




h \s\ rNouGii 

my grasp after trying how long I could 
stay ; and towards the last, after finding that 
I could easily stay down a minute, I always 
rose with some small stones or a handful 
of pebbles from the bottom. 

" I can go East and turn pearl diver 
now," I said, " if everything else fails ; " 
and, quite satisfied with the confidence 
acquired by my skill in diving, I prepared 
one night for a venture which rather chilled 
me as the time approached. 

It Avas a mad plan, and I knew it. I felt 
that I was quite a monomaniac ; but I was 
blindly determined, and one night found 
me, lantern-armed, and provided with 
matches, shut up in the well-house. 

I had stolen out about one, with every 
nerve strung to the highest pitch, and a 
horrible feeling of dread sending a shiver 
through me ; but I honestly believe that, 
if at that moment the danger of my task 
had been twice as great, the bull-dog 
obstinacy within me would have carried me 

But the danger was great enough, I well 
knew, as I set down on the humid floor 
the load I had brought, and then lit the 
lantern, and placed it on the framework 
of the great winch. Then lighting a piece 

of wax candle, I fixed 
that on the other side 
of the well by letting 
a little of the wax drip 
on the stout rail. 

"So far so good," 1 
said to myself, as 1 
resolutely drove back 
horrible suggestions, 
set my teeth, and 
threw off the ulster I 
wore, to stand ready 
in an old football 
jersey and drawers. 

I had thought out 
my plans to the 
smallest minutiae, and 
made all my calcula- 
tions ; so that, feeling 
that my only chance 
for carrying out my 
task successfully was 
by going straight on 
without hesitation, I 
raised the load I had 
brought one by one — 
a couple of fifty-six 
pound weights, and 
afttr seeing that the 
stop was in the winch, 
in one of the buckets 
up level with the rail. 
Then, fastening a string to the lantern, I 
lowered it down till it was about five feet 
from the water, fastened the string, and 
taking out the stop, let the first bucket 
run down with the weights till I heard it 
kiss the water with a hollow, echoing splash. 
As the sound arose I thrust the stop into 
the cogs of the winch once more, and the 
bucket was stopped, as I could see, half in 
the water. 

The next task was perilous, but nothing 
I felt to what was to come, as, mounting 
the rail, and climbing out on the apparatus, 
I seized one rope, reached out, caught the 
other, twisted my leg round, hung for a 
moment over the shaft, which looked, \i 
anything, more horrible from the dim light 
below, and let myself glide rapidly down. 

It was the task of a very few moments, 
but long enough for me to be attacked by 
thoughts such as — suppose the rope broke — 
suppose the air was foul down below — 
suppose I could not get back to the surface 
— answers to which came at once, for I knew 
that the rope would bear double my weight ; 
that the lantern would not have burned in 
foul air ; and that as to returning I had but 

c c 

placed them ready 
which I had drawn 



to stand in the bucket when I reached it, 
and draw myself vip by havtling the other 

No — impossible ; I had fixed the 
machinery with the stop. The thought un- 
nerved me for the moment, and then I 
laughed, as I recalled how often I had 
climbed a rope. Then I was level with the 
swinging lantern, my feet 
touched the water close 
by the partly-submerged 
lower wheel, and I checked 
myself to feel about and 
find, as I had anticipated, 
a broad resting-place, just 
below the svirface, com- 
posed of slippery cross- 

Here I stopped for a 
few moments thinking — 
not hesitating — as to 
which side I should .de- 
scend. And now, in spite 
of the dogged courage 
within me, I felt in full 
force the terrible risk I 
was about to run. It was 
one thing to plunge down 
into the open sea in broad 
daylight, holding one of 
those boulders ; another 
to take a fifty-six pound 
Aveight from that bucket 
close by me, plant it by 
me on the beam, thrust 
my foot through the ring 
right up to my instep, 
and then lower myself off 
and let that weight drag 
me down into those hor- 
rible cold, black depths. 

I shuddered with the 
shock of dread which ran 
through me, and then 
snapping my teeth to- 
gether like an angry dog, 
I uttered a low laugh, 
which startled me again, 
as in my desperate fit I 
said — 

" Bah, what a poor soldier I should have 
made ! Common workmen go through such 
risks every day as a matter of course. The 
jewels or " 

I did not finish my sentence, but bent down 
as I held on by the rope, and took one of 
the weights out of the bucket close by me ; 
the water Avashing about and whishing 
against the slimy Avails as if it Avere SAvarming 


with live creatures, disturbed by my coming, 
and ascending rapidly from the depths to 
attack the intruder upon their home. 

My foot glided along over the oaken 
beam on Avhich I stood, but I held on by 
the rope and recovered myself, planted the 
weight doAvn in the Avater by my feet, and 
holding up the ring thrust my right foot 
through close up to the 

"That Avill do," I 
thought, as I raised my 
toes, feeling that if I de- 
scended carefully it could 
not slip off till I loAvered 
the fore part of my foot. 
" NoAV, lad, no silly fan- 
cies," I muttered. " A fcAA^ 
long breaths, then one 
deep inhalation ; down 
you go rapidly ; then feel 
about for a minute and a 
half, find the package, slip 
your foot out of the ring 
— no, you Avill be holding 
it then — keep your hands 
over your head in case 
you come up under the 
beam, and then hurrah 
for to-morrow." 

It was a childish Avay 
of addressing myself, per- 
haps ; but I felt bound to 
treat the matter lightly, 
so as to cloak the peril 
from my too active brain. 
" Ready ? " I said, as I 
kept on breathing sloAvly 
and deeply, preparatory 
to taking the long, deep, 
lasting breath. 

" Yes," I said, mentally, 
and changing my hold to 
the other rope, I was 
about to loAver myself into 
a sitting position on the 
beam, draAving that deep 
, breath the Avhile, Avhen 
like lightning came the 
thought — *' Suppose it is 
your last ! " for a thrill shot down my left 
arm right to my heart, and I sprang back 
to my erect position Avondering as the thrill 
Avent on. 

Were my muscles quivering like that? 
No ; it Avas the rope Avhich I held in 
my hand, literally throbbing. I looked up, 
and there far above me, dimly visible by the 
light of the candle I had left burning, I 



could see something dark reaching out 
from the woodwork to the rope. The 
throbbing went on violently, and before I 
could grasp what it meant, the rope gave 
way in my hand, there was a peculiar rush- 
ing in the water, I lost my balance, my foot 
in the iron ring felt as if snatched off the 
slippery beam, and I was rushing down 
through the black water rapidly toward the 


I SUPPOSE I must have struck out in- 
voluntarily, and in the act, as the water 
thundered in my ears and literally jarred 
me as if blows had been struck over my 
head, the weight glided from my foot and I 
rose to the surface choking, panting, and 
grasping wildly at the first object I touched. 
It was rope, and it gave way beneath my 
grasp. I caught at something again. It 
was a wheel and it turned round, but, as 
strange sounds, shouts, and cries reached my 
ears, I got hold of the cross beam, and some- 
how, by help of the wheel, managed to 
reach my old position, but crouching down 
and holding on for dear life. 

" Below there ! "' shouted a familiar voice, 
but hollow and strange, " who is it ? " 

"I! Help! Help!" I gasped, now 
thoroughly unnerved. 

" Right ; can you hold on till we send 
you down a rope ? " 

I did not answer for a few moments as I 
strove to realise my chances. 

"Yes," I said hoarsely. " Don't be long." 

It seemed an age before the rope came, 
and during the terrible waiting time I 
listened to words of encouragement mingled 
with stern orders deliverSd in Lord Gurt- 
leigh's voice. 

Then came a cheer, and he shouted to 
me — 

"Hold on, lad ! 
Rope's being rigged 
over the wheel. I'm 
coming down." 

" No, no," I shouted, 
rousing myself now 
from the apathy into 
which I had been fast 
sinking. "Send it 
down, and I'll make 
it fast." 

Soon after a lantern 
began to descend, and 

by its light I saw the loop of a rope gradually 
glide lower and lower till it reached me, 
when I was so numbed and cramped that I 
had hard work to get it over my head and 
arms. But I succeeded, and it must have 
spun round and tightened about my chest 
as I was hoisted up, for I was quite vmable 
to help myself, and insensible by the time I 
reached the top. 

When I opened my eyes again with an 
understanding brain, my old friend was 
seated by my bedside; and, after I had 
assured him that I was not going to die, he 
told me that he had been roused up by the 
head keeper throwing shots at his window; 
and, upon his opening it, the man told him 
that there was something wrong, for, passing 
near the back of the buildings, he had seen 
a light in the well -house through the little 

" We were only just in time, Charley. 
Caught the scoundrel with the knife in his 
hand. He had just cut through the rope." 
" Who — who was it ? " I cried. 
"Why, Brayson, of course ! " 
" Then he was the thief ! " I cried, 
excitedly, "and the jewels are there." 

"Jewels? Down the well ? You were 
after them ! " 

" Of course," I said, and I told him 'all. 
" Well," he said, as I finished my brief 
narrative, " I have heard about men being 
fit for Colney Hatch, and you're one ! " 

" Never mind that," I said, " if Lady 
Florry gets back her gems." 

" And old Brayson is hung for trying to 
murder you," said Lord Gurtleigh. " But, I 
say, old fellow, I'm glad I came." 

But Brayson was not hung, he only had 
a taste of penal servitude for the robbery of 
the jewels and also of some valuable plate, ^ 
two packages secured in fine wire netting 
being brought up after 
proper dredging ar- 
rangements had been 

As for myself, I was 
none the worse for my 
submersion, save that 
my nerves were un- 
steady for some' time, 
especially when I used 
to lie and think — 
" Suppose that keeper 
V had not seen the 

Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of their Lives. 

the burlesque of " Zampa,'' under Miss 
Litton, at the Royal Comedy Theatre : 

hU'oiu u I'liuiu. hjj \ 4 MoN 1 ]\^. I /^' iti'tilain it Jilake. 


Born 1852. 


I born at Grove House Academy, 

I St. Peter's, near Margate, a school 

_S kept by his father, who soon 

Jfrotn a] age 32. [Photograph ^ 


afterwards removed to Charles- 
street, Westminster. The boy at the age 
of seven was a singer in the choir of St. John 
the Evangelist, Westminster, and in later since which time his name has been a house- 
years was principal bass in Bedford Chapel, hold word, especially in connection with 
Bloomsbury. He began his stage career in the immortal " Private Secretary." 

t'lom a I'holo. by] 

^Berlin, Brigliton. J-roni a I li >! I 1 1 Ktsi \ 1 D\\ l\l a u i k J>ruoli> ^ U itichtltr 



was produced in 185 1, with some success ; 
but it was not until 1859, when he was 
forty-one, that he suddenly attained to 
world-wide fame and popularity with the 
well-known opera of " Faust," the melody 

t'i'om a Drawimj] 

AGE 17. 

[by Ingri 

From a Photo J 

iby Petit, Paris. 

BoKx 1 81 8. 
iONS. GOUNOD was born at 
Paris, and educated in music at 
the Conservatoire under Halevy 
and Zimmermann. Our first 

portrait represents him in his r 1 • 1 • 11 

student days. At twenty-two he was ap- '^"^, tenderness c^f which quite took the 
pointed orcrani.t at a church in Paris, for ^^'^''^^ "* ^^^^^'^ by surprise. His two most 

important works since that time are the 
opera of "Romeo et Juliette" and the 
II oratorios of the " Redemption '' anci " Mors 
et X'ita." 

From a I'lioto.] 

which he wrote several masses. At the 
age of twenty-nine he married the daughter 
of Zimmermann. His first opera, ''Sapho," 

Frotit a Photo, by] 

[Xadars. Paris, 





AGE 30. 
From a riiolo. by Thomas Roger, St. Andrews. 

Born i8iq. 
F.R.S., the son of the late Dr. 
George Playfair, Inspector-Gene- 
ral of Hospitals in Bengal, was 
educated at the Universities of St. Andrews 
and Giessen, and at University College, and 
was a fav^ouriie pupil of the celebrated 
chemists, Graham and Liebig. After 
managing for some years some calico- 
printing works at Clitheroe, he became, 
at the age of twenty-four, Professor of 
Chemistry in the Manchester Royal Insti- 
tution, and Professor of Chemistry in 
Edinburgh University in 1856. Dr. Playfair 
served on numerous Royal Commissions ; 
for instance, that of 1844, which inquired 
into the sanitary condition of towns, and 
the Civil Service Commission of 1874, of 
which he was president, and which pro- 
duced the " Playfair Scheme," and his 
reports were marked by great ability. He 
was a Special Commissioner at the Great 
Exhibition of 1851, at the close of which, 
in recognition of his scientific services, he 
was made a Companion of the Bath, and 
received an appointment in the household 
of the Prince Consort. He was elected as 
Member of Parliament for the Universities 
of Edinburgh and St. Andrews in 1868. 
He held office in the Ministry of 1873-4 
as Postmaster-General, and was made a 
Privy Councillor. In 1880 he was appointed 
Chairman of Ways and Means, and Deputy 
Speaker of the House of Commons. During 
his term of office it fell to his lot to deal 

with the Irish question, at a time when 
party spirit ran high, and his suspension of 
the whole of the Irish members in 1882 
was one of the most remarkable incidents 
of recent Parliamentary warfare. In 1885 
he was President of the British Association. 
Sir Lyon Playfair is the author of numerous 
scientific works, as well as of numerous 
books on general subjects. 

Uiujtld. trt/. 



ACi; u. 'JJiiijucireoivi"- 


|R. MUDDOCK, whose powerful 
story, " For God and the Czar," 
has been dehghting the readers 
of Tit-Bits^ was educated for the 
Indian Government service, and 
was in India during the Mutiny. He has 
passed a most adventurous and varied hfe, 
has been a special correspondent, and a 
distinguished mountaineer, has written 
many well-known novels, and is known to 

AGE ig. 
From a Photo, by Rider & Barrett, Southampton. 

thousands of readers as the author of the 
adventures of Dick Donovan, the Detective. \^^ 

rrom a Photo, by Adamfon d- Son, Rothesay. 

From a PItoto. 6y] age 38. [Braithwaite, Ulverelon "^ 

From a Photo, by Valentine <t Sone, JJunUsc. 




Mr. Henry A. Reeves, a well-known hospital 
surgeon, whose specialty is orthopaedics. 
He is himself an accomplished author, and 

iruma I'koto. by\ AGE i8. {.l>Khei(ham,lle<jeia-ti,rixl,\V, 


BoRX 1852. 
ELEN MATHERS was quite a 
girl when she achieved an extra- 
llj ordinary success with " Comin' 
|y thro' the Rye." Many other 
stories followed ; and she may be 
said to have inaugurated the shilling novel 
with "Found Out." She married, in 1876, 

trom a I'hotc. bij\ age 26ADebenham,ltegenl-st.,U'. 

liis favourite recreation is chess. They 
have one son, who inherits his mother's 
chief ( h^ra'l (i'i^t ic- liiiobt lu'ss. 

j<rom a Pnoto. 

AGE 23. L-t-elenAaf/c, /.ci/t;.i(-5{/ec(,(fC 

Ffom a I'holo. by} present DAY. i^^mi VoUingg, Brighton, 

/ n \ )F CELEBRirrKS. 


Froma] ,\>.ii .; )• J'hutograph. 

Born 1836. 
NAND, at the age represented 
in our first portrait, was at 
Eton ; our second portrait 
shows him at Cambridge ; the 
third at an age when he was already well 
•known as the smartest writer of burlesques 
of the day ; and the fourth just as he 
became editor of Punch. For a full ac- 
count of Mr. Burnand's career, the reader 
is referred to the " Illustrated Interview," 
which appears in another part of the 
present number. 

AGE 30. [Photoiirapli. 

From a Photo, by] present day. 


Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. 



By a. Conan Doylk. 



HE Lord St. Simon marriage, 
and its curious termination, 
have long ceased to be a sub- 
ject of interest in those exalted 
circles in which the unfor- 
tunate bridegroom moves. 
Fresh scandals have eclipsed it, and their 
more piquant details have drawn the gossips 
away from this four-year-old drama. As I 
have reason to believe, however, that the 
full facts have never been revealed to the 
general public, and as my friend Sherlock 
Holmes had a considerable share in clearing 
the matter up, I feel that no memoir of him 
would be complete without some little 
sketch of this remarkable episode. 

It was a few weeks before my own 
marriage, during the days when I was still 
sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker-street, 
that he came home from an afternoon stroll 
to find a letter on the table waiting for 
him. I had remained indoors all day, for 
the weather had taken a 
sudden turn to rain, with high 
autumnal winds, and the jezail 

bullet which I had brought back in one of 
my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign, 
throbbed with dull persistency. With my 
body in one easy chair and my legs upon 
another, I had surrounded myself with a 
cloud of newspapers, until at last, saturated 
with the news of the day, I tossed them all 
aside and lay listless, watching the huge 
crest and monogram upon the enVelope 
upon the table, and wondering lazily who 
my friend's noble correspondent could be. 

" Here is a very fashionable epistle,'' I 
remarked as he entered. " Your morning 
letters, if I remember right, were from a 
fishmonger and a tide waiter." 

" Yes, my correspondence has certainly 
the charm of variety," he answered, smiling, 
" and the humbler are usually the more 
interesting. This looks like one of those 




unwelcome social summonses which call 
upon a man either to be bored or to lie." 

He broke the seal, and glanced over the 

" Oh, come, it may prove to be some- 
thing of interest after all." 

"Not social, then ? " 

"Nd, distinctly professional." 

" And from a noble client ? " 

"One of the highest in England." 

" My dear fellow, I congratulate you." 

" I assure you, Watson, without affecta- 
tion, that the status of my client is a 
matter of less moment to me than the 
interest of his case. It is just possible, 
however, that that also may not be wanting 
in this new investigation. You have been 
reading the papers diligently of late, have 
you not ? " 

" It looks like it," said I, ruefully, point- 
ing to a huge bundle in the corner. " I 
have had nothing else to do." 

" It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be 
able to post me up. I read nothing except 
the criminal news and the agony column. 
The latter is always instructive. But if you 
have followed recent events so ' closely you 
must have read about Lord St. Simon and 
his wedding ? " 

." Oh, yes, with the deepest interest." 

" That is well. The letter which I hold 
in my hand is from Lord St. Simon. I 
will read it to you, and in return you must 
turn ov^er these papers and let me have 
whatever bears upon the matter. This is 
what he says : — 

'* ' My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, — Lord 
Backwater tells me that I may place implicit 
reliance upon your judgment and discre- 
tion. I have determined, therefore, to call 
upon you, and to consult you in reference 
to the very painful event which has occurred 
in connection with my wedding. Mr. 
Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is acting 
already in the matter^ but he assures me 
that he sees no objection to your co-opera- 
tion, and that he even thinks that it might 
be of some assistance. I will call at four 
o'clock in the afternoon, and, should you 
have any other engagement at that time, I 
hope that you will postpone it, as this 
matter is of paramount importance. — 
Yours faithfully, St. Simon.' 

" It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, 
written with a quill pen, and the noble lord 
has had the misfortune to get a smear of 
ink upon the outer side of his right little 
finger," remarked Holmes, as he folded up 
the epistle. 

" He says four o'clock. It is three now. 
He will be here in an hour." 

" Then I have just time, with your assist- 
ance, to get clear upon the subject. Turn . 
over those papers, and arrange the extracts 
in their order of time, while I take a glance 
as to who our client is." He picked a red- 
covered volume from a line of books of 
reference beside the mantelpiece. " Here 
he is," said he, sitting down and flattening it 
out upon his knee. " Lord Robert Walsing- 
ham de Vere St. Simon, second son of the 
Duke of Balmoral — Hum ! Arms : Azure, 
three caltrops in chief over a fess sable. 
Born in 1846. He's forty-one years of age, 
which is mature for marriage. Was Under- 
Secretary for the Colonies in a late Admin- 
istration. The Duke, his father, was at 
one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs. 
They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct 
descent, and Tudor on the distaff side. Ha ! 
Well, there is nothing very instructive in 
all this. I think that I must turn to you, 
Watson, for something more solid." 

" I have very little difficulty in finding 
what I want," said I, ''for the facts are 
quite recent, and the matter struck me as 
remarkable. I feared to refer them to you, 
however, as I knew that you had an inquiry 
on hand, and that you disliked the intrusion 
of other matters." 

" Oh, you mean the little problem of the 
Grosvenor-square furniture van. That is 
quite cleared up now — though, indeed, it 
was obvious from the first. Pray give me 
the results of your newspaper selections." 

" Here is the first notice which I can 
find. It is in the personal column of The 
Morning Pbsl, and dates, as you see, some 
Aveeks back. ' A marriage has been arranged,''^ 
it says, ' and will, if rumour is correct, very 
shortly take place, between Lord Robert 
St. Simon, second son of the Duke of 
Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only 
daughter of Aloysius Doran, Esq., of San 
Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.' That is all." 

" Terse and to the point," remarked 
Holmes, stretching his long, thin legs 
towards the fire. 

" There was a paragraph amplifying this 
in one of the society papers of the same 
week. Ah, here it is. * There will soon ** 
be a call for protection in the marriage 
market, for the present free-trade principle 
appears to tell heavily against our home 
product. One by one the management of 
the noble houses of Great Britain is passing 
into the hands of our fair cousins from 
across the Atlantic. An important addi- 


thb: strand magazine. 

tion has been made during the last week to 
the list of the prizes which have been borne 
away by these charming invaders. Lord 
St. Simon, who has shown himself for over 
twenty years proof against the little god's 
arrows, has now definitely announced his 
approaching marriage with Miss Hatty 
Doran, the fascinating daughter of a 
Californian millionaire. Miss Doran, whose 
graceful figure and striking face attracted 
much attention at the Westbury House 
festivities, is an only child, and it is cur- 
rently reported that her dowry will run to 
considerably over the six figures, with 
expectancies for the future. As it is an 
open secret that the Duke of Balmoral has 
been compelled to sell his pictures within 
the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon 
has no property of his own, save the small 
estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the 
Californian heiress is not the only gainer 
by an alliance which will enable her to 
make the easy and common transition from 
a Republican lady to a British peeress.' " 

" Anything else ? '' asked Holmes, yawn- 

" Oh yes ; plenty. Then there is another 
note in The Morning Post to say that the 
marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, 
that it would be at St. George's, Hanover- 
square, that only half a dozen intimate 
friends would be invited, anl that the 
party would return to the furnished house 
at Lancaster-gate which has been taken by 
Mr. Aloysius Doran. Two days later — 
that is, on Wednesday last — there is a curt 
announcement that the wedding had taken 
place, and that the honeymoon would be 
passed at Lord Backwater's place, near 
,-^Betersfield. Those are all the notices 
which appeared before the disappearance 
of the bride." 

" Before the what ? " asked Holmes, 
with a start. 

" The vanishing of the lady." 

" When did she vanish, then ? " 

'' At the wedding breakfast." 

"Indeed. This is more interesting than 
it promised to be ; quite dramatic, in fact." 

"Yes; it struck me as being a little out 
of the common." 

" They often vanish before the ceremony, 
and occasionally during the honeymoon ; 
but I cannot call to mind anything quite 
so prompt as this. Pray let me have the 

" I warn you that they are very incom- 

" Perhaps we may make them less so." 

" Such as they arc, they are set forth in v 
a single article of a morning paper of yes- 
terday, which I will read to you. It is 
headed, ' Singular Occurrence at a Fashion- 
able Wedding ': — 

" ' The family of Lord Robert St. Simon • 
has been thrown into the greatest conster- . 
nation by the strange and painful episodes 
which have taken place in connection with 
his wedding. The ceremony, as shortly 
announced in the papers of yesterday, 
occurred on the previous morning ; but it is 
only now that it has been possible to confirm 
the strange rumours which have been so 
persistently floating about. Li spite of the 
attempts of the friends to hush the matter 
up, so much public attention has now been 
drawn to it that no good purpose can be 
served by affecting to disregard what is a 
common subject for conversation. 

" ' The ceremony, which was performed 
at St. George's, Hanover-square, was a very 
quiet one, no one being present save the 
father of the bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, 
the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater, 
IvOrd Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon 
(the younger brother and sister of the bride- 
groom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The 
whole party proceeded afterwards to the 
house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster 
Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. 
It appears that some little trouble was 
caused by a woman, whose name has not 
been ascertained, who endeavoured to force 
her way into the house after the bridal 
party, alleging that she had some claim i 
upon Lord St. Simon. It was only after 
a painful and prolonged scene that she was 
ejected by the butler and the footman. 
The bride, who had fortunately entered the 
house before this unpleasant interruption, 
had sat down to breakfast with the rest, 
when she complained of a sudden indispo- 
sition, and retired to her room. Her pro- 
longed absence having caused some com- 
ment, her father followed her ; but learned 
from her maid that she had only come up 
to her chamber for an instant,, caught up 
an ulster and bonnet, and hurried down to 
the passage. One of the footmen declared . 
that he had seen a lady leave the house 
thus apparelled ; but had refused to credit 
that it was his mistress, believing her to be 
with the company. On ascertaining that 
his daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius 
Doran, in conjunction with the bridegroom, 
instantly put themselves into communica- 
tion with the police, and very energetic _ 
inquiries are being made, which will pro- 




bably result in a speedy clearing up of this 
very singular business. Up to a late hoiir 
last night, however, nothing had transpired 
as to the whereabouts of the missing lady. 
There are rumours of foul play in the 
matter, and it is said that the police have 
caused the arrest of the woman who had 
caused the original disturbance, in the belief 
that, from jealousy or some other motive, 
she may have been concerned in the strange 
disappearance of the bride.' " 

" And is that all ? " 

" Only one little item in another of the 
morning papers, but it is a suggestive one.'" 

"Audit is?" 

'' That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who 
had caused the disturbance, has actually 
been arrested. It appears that she was 
formerly a dansetise aX the Allegro, and that 

she has known the bride- 
groom for some years. 
There are no further 
particulars, and the whole 
case is in your hands now 
—so far as it has been set 
forth in the public press." 
" And an exceedingly 
interesting case it appears 
to be. I would not have 
missed it for worlds. But 
there is a ring at the bell, 
Watson, and as the clock 
makes it a few minutes 
after four, I have no doubt 
that this will prove to be 
our noble client. Do not 
dream of going, Watson, 
for I very much prefer 
having a witness, if only 
as a check to my own 

"Lord Robert ' St. 
Simon," announced our 
page boy, throwing open 
the door. A gentleman 
entered, with a pleasant, 
cultured face, high-noseJ 
and pale, with something 
])erhaps of petulance about 
the mouth, and with the 
steady, well-opened eye of 
a man whose pleasant lot 
it had ever been to com- 
mand and to be obeyed. ' 
His manner was brisk, and 
yet his general appearance 
gave an undue impression 
of age, for he had a slight 
forward stoop, and a littld?^- 
bend ot the knees as he walked. His hair, 
too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed 
hat, was grizzled round the edges, and thin 
upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful 
to the verge of foppishness, with high 
collar, black frock coat, white waistcoat, 
yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and 
light-coloured gaiters. He advanced slowly 
into the room, turning his head from left 
to right, and swinging in his right hand 
the cord which held his golden eye-glasses. 
" Good day. Lord St. Simon," said' 
Holmes, rising and bowing. " Pray take 
the basket chair. This is my friend aijd 
colleague. Dr. Watson. Draw up a little 
to the fire, and we shall talk this matter 

" A most painful matter to me, as you can 
most readily imagine, Mr. Holmes. I have 



been cut to the quick. I understand that 
you have already managed several delicate 
cases of this sort, sir, though I presume 
that they were hardly from the same class 
of society." 

"No, I am descend- 

" I beg pardon ? " 

" My last client of 
the sort was a king." 

"Oh, really! I had 
no idea. And which 
king ? " 

" The King of 

"What! Had he 
lost his wife ? " 

" You can under- 
stand," said Holmes, 
suavely, " that I ex- 
tend to the affairs of 
my other clients the 
same secrecy which I 
promise to you in 

" Of course ! Very 
right ! very right ! 
I'm sure I beg pardon. 
As to my own case, 
I am ready to give 
you any information 
which may assist you 
in forming an 

" Thank you. I 
have already learned 
all that is in the 
public prints, nothing 
more. I presume 
that I may take it as 

correct — this article, for example, as to the 
disappearance of the bride." 

Lord St. Simon glanced over it. " Yes, it 
is correct, as far as it goes." 

" But it needs a great deal of supple- 
menting before anyone could offer an 
opinion. I think that I may arrive at my 
facts most directly by questioning you." 

" Pray do so." 

"When did you first meet Miss Hatty 
Doran ? " 

" In San Francisco, a year ago." 

" You were travelling in the States ? " 


" Did you become engaged then ? " 

" No." 

" But you were on a friendly footing ? " 

" I was amused by her society, and she 
could see that I was amused." 


" Her father is very rich ? " 
" He is said to be the richest man on the 
Pacific slope." 

'' And how did he make his money ? " 

" In mining. He 
had nothing a few 
years ago. Then he 
struck gold, invested 
it, and came up by 
leaps and bounds." 

"Now, what is 
your own impression 
as to the young lady's 
— your wife's charac- 
ter ? " 

The nobleman 
swung his glasses a 
little faster and stared 
down into the fire. 
"You see, Mr. 
Holmes," said he, 
". my wife was twenty 
before her father 
became a rich man. 
During that time she 
ran free in a mining 
camp, and wandered 
through woods or 
mountains, so that 
Si§s her education has 
come from Nature 
rather than from the 
schoolmaster. She is 
what we call in 
England a tomboy, 
with a strong nature, 
wild and free, un- 
fettered by any sort 
ST. SIMON." of traditions. She is 

impetuous — volcanic, 
I was about to say. She is swift in making 
up her mind, and fearless in carrying out 
her resolutions. On the other hand, I 
would not have given her the name which 
I have the honour to btar" (he gave a 
little stately cough) " had I not thought 
her to be at bottom a noble woman. I 
believe that she is capable of heroic self- 
sacrifice, and that anything dishonourable 
would be repugnant to her.'' 
" Have you her photograph ? " 
" I brought this with me." He opened 
a locket, and showed us the full face of a 
very lovely Avoman. It was not a photo- 
graph, but an ivory miniature, and the 
artist had brought out the full effect of the 
lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and 
the exquisite mouth. Holmes gazed long 
and earnestly at it. Then he closed the 



locket and handed it back to Lord St. 

" The young lady came to London, then, 
and you renewed your acquaintance ? " 

" Yes, her father brought her over for 
this last London season. I met her several 
times, became engaged to her, and have 
now married her.'' 

"She brought, I understand , 
a considerable dowry ? " 

" A fair dowry. Not more 
than is usual in my family." 

" And this, of course, re- 
mains to you, since the 
marriage is a fait accompli} " 

" I really have made no 
inquiries on the subject." 

" Very naturally not. Did 
you see Miss Doran on the 
day before the wedding ? " 

" Yes." 

"Was she in good spirits?" 

" Never better. She kept 
talking of what we should do 
in our future lives." 

"Indeed. That is very 
interesting. And on the 
morning of the wedding ? " 

" She was as bright as 
possible — at least, until after 
the ceremony." 

" And did you observe any 
change in her then ? " 

" Well, to tell the truth, I 
saw then the first sights that 
I had ever seen that her 
temper was just a little sharp. 
The incident, however, was 
too trivial to relate, and can 
have no possible bearing upon 
the case." 

" Pray let us have it, for all that." 

" Oh, it is childish. She dropped her 
bouquet as we went towards the vestry. 
She was passing the front pew at the time, 
and it fell over into the pew. There was 
a moment's delay, but the gentleman in 
the pew handed it up to her again, and it 
did not appear to be the worse for the 
fall. Yet, when I spoke to her of the 
matter, she answered me abruptly ; and 
in the carriage, on our way home, she 
seemed absurdly agitated over this trifling 

"Indeed. You say that there was a 
gentleman in the pew. Some of the general 
public were present, then ? " 

" Oh yes. It is impossible to exclude 
them Avhen the church is open." 

" This gentleman was not one of you: 
wife's friends ? " 

" No, no ; I call him a gentleman b) 
courtesy, but he was quite a common- 
looking person. I hardly noticed his ap- 
pearance. But really I think that we are 
wandering rather far from the point." 


" Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the 
wedding in a less cheerful frame of mind 
than she had gone to it. What did she do 
on re-entering her father's house ? " 

"I saw her in conversation with her 

" And who is her maid ? " 

"Alice is her name. She is an American, 
and came from California with her." 

" A confidential servant ? " 

" A little too much so. It seemed to me 
that her mistress allowed her to take 
great liberties. Still, of course, in America 



they look upon these things in a different 

" How long did she speak to this Alice ? " 

" Oh, a few minutes. I had something 
else to think of." 

" Vou did not overhear what they said ? " 

" Lady St. Simon said something about 
'jumping a claiin.' She was accustomed to 
use slang of the kind. I have no idea 
what she meant." 

" American slang is very expressive some- 
times. And what did your wife do when 
she had finished speaking to her maid ? " 

" She walked into the breakfast room." 

" On your arm ? " 

" No, alone. She was very independent 
in little matters like that. Then, after we 
had sat down for ten minutes or so, she 
rose hurriedly, muttered some words of 
apology, and left the room. She never 
came back." 

" But this maid Alice, as I understand, 
deposes that she went to her room, covered 
her bride's dress Avith a long ulster, put on 
a bonnet, and went out." 

"Quite so. And she was afterwards 
seen walking into Hyde-park in company 
with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in 
custody, and who had already made a 
disturbance at Mr. Doran's house that 

" Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars 
as to this young lady, and your relations to 

Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders, 
and raised his eyebrows. " We have been 
on a friendly footing for some years— I may 
say on a very friendly footing. She used to 
be at the Allegro. I have not treated her 
ungenerously, and she has no just cause of 
complaint against me, but you know what 
women are. Air. Holmes. Flora was a dear 
little thing, but exceedingly hot-headed, 
and devotedly attached to me. She wrote 
me dreadful letters when she heard that I 
was about to be married, and to tell the 
truth the reason why I had the marriage 
celebrated so quietly was that I feared lest 
there might be a scandal in the church. 
She came to Mr. Doran's door just after we 
returned, and she endeavoured to push her 
way in, uttering very abusive expressions 
towards my wife, and even threatening 
her, but I had foreseen the possibility of 
something of the sort, and I had two police 
fellows there in private clothes, who soon 
pushed her out again. She was quiet 
when she saw that there was no good in 
makinsf a row." 

'' Did your wife hear all this ? " 

" No, thank goodness, she did not." 

" And she was seen walking with this 
very woman afterwards ? " 

" Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of 
Scotland Yard, looks upon as so serious. It 
is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out, 
and laid some terrible trap for her." 

" Well, it is a possible supposition." 

" You think so, too ? " 

" I did not say a probable one. But you 
do not yourself look upon this as likely ? " 

" I do not think Flora would hurt a fly." 

" Still, jealousy is a strange transformer 
of characters. Pray what is your own 
theory as to what took place ? " 

" Well, really, I came to seek a theory, 
not to propound one. I have given you all 
the facts. Since you ask me, however, I 
may say that it has occurred to me as pos- 
sible that the excitement of this affair, the 
consciousness that she had made so im- 
mense a social stride, had the effect of 
causing some little nervous disturbance in 
my wife." 

" In short, that she had become suddenly 
deranged ? " 

" Well, really, when I consider that she 
has turned her back — I will not say upon 
me, but upon so much that many have 
aspired to without success — I can hardly 
explain it in any oiher fashion.' 

'' Well, certainly that is also a conceivable 
hypothesis," said Holmes, smiling. " And 
now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have 
nearly all my data. May I ask whether 
you were seated at the breakfast-table so 
that you could see out of the window ? " 

" We could see the other side of the 
road, and the Park." 

" Quite so. Then I do not think that I 
need detain you longer. I shall communi- 
cate with you." 

" Should you be fortunate enough to 
solve this problem," said our client, rising. 

" I have solved it." 

" Eh ? What was that ? ' 

" I say that I have solved it." 

" Where, then, is my wife ? '' 

''That is a detail which I shall speedily 

Lord St. Simon shook his head. " I am 
afraid that it will take wiser heads than 
yours or mine,'' he remarked, and bowing 
in a stately, old-fashioned manner, he 

"It is very good of Lord St. Simon to 
honour my head by putting it on a level 
with his own," said Sherlock Holmes,- 



laughing. " I think that I shall have a 
whisky and soda and a cigar after all this 
cross-questioning. I had formed my con- 
clusions as to the case before our client 
came into the room." 

" My dear Holmes ! " 

"'I have notes of several similar cases, 
though none, as I remarked before, which 
were quite as prompt. My whole examina- 
tion served to turn my conjecture into a 
certainty. Circumstantial evidence is occa- 
sionally very convincing, as when you find 
a trout in the milk, to quote Thoreau's 

" But I have heard all that you have 

"Without, however, the knowledge of 
pre-existing cases which serves me so well. 
There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen 
some years back, and something on very 
much the same lines at Munich the year 
after the Franco-Prussian war. It is one 
of these cases — but hullo, here is Lestrade ! 
Good afternoon, Lestrade ! You will find 
an extra tumbler upon the sideboard, and 
there are cigars in the box." 

The oflficial detective was attired in a 
pea-jacket and cravat, which gave him a 
decidedly nautical appearance, and he 
carried a black canvas bag in his hand. 
With a short greeting he seated himself, 

and lit the cigar which had been offered 
to him. 

" What's up, then ? " asked Holmes, with 
a twinkle in his eye. " You look dis- 

" And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal 
St. Simon marriage case. I can make 
neither head nor tail of the business. 

" Really ! You surprise me." 

"Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? 
Every clue seems to slip through my fingers. 
I have been at work upon it all day." 

" And very wet it seems to have made 
you," said Holmes, laying his hand upon 
the arm of the pea-jacket. 

" Yes, I have been dragging the 

" In heaven's name, what for ? " 

"In search of the body of Lady St. 

Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair 
and laughed heartily. 

" Have you dragged the basin of the 
Trafalgar-square fountain ? " he asked. 

" Why ? What do you mean ? " 

" Because you have just as good a chance 
of finding this lady in the one as in the 

Lestrade shot an angry glance at my 
companion. " I suppose you know all about 
it," he snarled. 

" Well, I have only just heard the facts, 
but my mind is made up." 

" Oh, indeed ! Then you think that the 
Serpentine plays no part in the matter ? " 





■ " I think it very unlikely." 

" Then perhaps you will kindly explain 
how it is that we found this in it ? " He 
opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled 
on to the floor a wedding dress of watered 
silk, a pair of white satin shoes, and a 
bride's wreath and veil, all discoloured and 
soaked in water, " There," said he, putting 
a new wedding-ring upon the top of the 
pile. " There is a little nut for you to 
crack. Master Holmes." 

" Oh, indeed," said my friend, blowing 
blue rings into the air. " You dragged 
them from the Serpentine ? " 

" No. They were found floating near the 
margin by a park-keeper. They have been 
identified as her clothes, and it seemed to 
me that if the clothes were there the body 
would not be far off." 

" By the same brilliant reasoning, every 
man's body is to be found in the neighbour- 
hood of his wardrobe. And pray what did 
you hope to arrive at through this ? " 

"At some evidence implicating Flora 
Millar in the disappearance.'' 

"I am afraid that you will find it diflR- 

" Are you indeed, now ? " cried Lestrade, 
with some bitterness. '* I am afraid. Holmes, 
that you are not very practical with your 
deductions and your inferences. You have 
made two blunders in as many minutes. 
This dress does implicate Miss Flora 

" And how ? " 

" In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket 
is a card-case. In the card-case is a note. 
And here is the very note." He slapped 
it down upon the table in front of him. 
" Listen to this. ' You will see me when 
all is ready. Come at once. F. H. M.' 
Now my theory all along has been that 
Lady St. Simon was decoyed away by Flora 
Millar, and that she, with confederates no 
doubt, was responsible for her disappear- 
ance. Here, signed with her initials, is the 
very note which was no doubt quietly 
slipped into her hand at the door, and which 
lured her within their reach." 

'•Very good, Lestrade," said Holmes, 
laughing. " You really are very fine indeed. 
Let me see it." He took up the paper in a 
listless way, but his attention instantly 
became riveted, and he gave a little cry of 
satisfaction. " This is indeed important," 
said he. 

" Ha, you find it so ? " 

" Extremely so. I congratulate you 

Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent 
his head to look. " Why," he shrieked, 
" you're looking at the wrong side." 

" On the contrary, this is the right side." 

" The right side ? You're mad ! Here 
is the note written in pencil over here." 

" And over here is what appears to be 
the fragment of a hotel bill, which interests 
me deeply." 

" There's nothing in it. I looked at it 
before," said Lestrade, " ' Oct. 4tli, rooms 
8s., breakfast 2s. 6d , cocktail is., lunch 
2s. 6d., glass sherry, 8d.' I see nothing in 

" Very likely not. It is most important 
all the same. As to the note, it is important 
also, or at least the initials are, so I con- 
gratulate you again." 

" I've wasted time enough," said Lestrade, 
rising, " I believe in hard work, and not in 
sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. 
Good-day, Mr. Holmes, and we shall see 
which gets to the bottom of the matter 
first." He gathered up the garments, thrust 
them into the bag, and made for the door. 

" Just one hint to you, Lestrade," drawled 
Holmes, before his rival vanished ; " I will 
tell you the true solvation of the matter. 
Lady St. Simon is a myth. There is not, 
and there never has been, any such person." 

Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. 
Then he turned to me, tapped his forehead 
three times, shook his head solemnly, and 
hurried away. 

He had hardly shut the door behind him 
when Holmes rose and put on his overcoat. 
" There is something in what the fellow 
says about outdoor work," he remarked, 
*' so I think, Watson, that I must leave you 
to your papers for a little." 

It was after five o'clock when Sherlock 
Holmes left me, but I had no time to be 
lonely, for within an hour there arrived a 
confectioner's man with a very large flat 
box. This he unpacked with the help of a 
youth whom he had brought with him, 
and presently, to my very great astonish- 
ment, a quite epicurean little co:.' supper 
began to be laid out upon our humble 
lodging-house mahogany. There were a 
couple of brace of cold woodcock, a phea- 
sant, 2ipdte de foie gras pie, with a group of 
ancient and cobwebby bottles. Having 
laid out all these luxuries, my two visitors 
vanished away, Hke the genii of the 
Arabian Nights, with no explanation save 
that the things had been paid for, and were 
ordered to this address. 

Just before nine o'clock Sherlock Holmes 



stepped briskly into the room. His features 
were gravely set, but there was a light in 
his eye which made me think that he had 
not been disappointed in his conclusions. 

" They have laid the supper, then," he 
said, rubbing his hands. 

" You seem to expect company. They 
have laid for five." 

" Yes, I fancy we may have some com- 
pany dropping in," said he. " I am sur- 
prised that Lord St. Simon has not already 
arrived. Ha ! I fancy that I hear his step 
now upon the stairs." 

It was indeed our visitor of the morning 
who came bustling in, dangling his glasses 
more vigorously than ever, and with a very 
perturbed expression upon his aristocratic 

" My messenger reached you, then ? " 
asked Holmes. 

" Yes, and I confess that the contents 
startled me beyond measure. Have you good 
authority for what you say ? " 

" The best possible." 

Lord St. Simon sank mto a chair, and 
passed his hand over his forehead. 

" What will the duke say," he murmured, 
" when he hears that one of the family has 
been subjected to such a humiliation ? " 

"It is the purest accident. I cannot 
allow that there is any humiliation." 

" Ah, you look on these things from 
another standpoint." 

" I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I 
can hardly see how the lady could have 
acted otherwise, though her abrupt method 
of doing it was undoubtedly to be regretted. 
Having no mother she had no one to advise 
her at such a crisis." 

" It was a slight, sir, a public slight," said 
Lord St. Simon, tapping his fingers upon 
the table. 

" You must make allowance for this 
poor girl, placed in so unprecedented a 

" I Avill make no allowance. I am very 
angry indeed, and I have been shamefully 

"I think that I heard a ring," said 
Holmes. " Yes, there are steps on the land- 
ing. If I cannot persuade you to take a 
lenient view of the matter. Lord St. Simon, 
I have brought an advocate here who may 
be more successful." He opened the door 
and ushered in a lady and gentleman. 
"Lord St. Simon," said he, "allow me to 
introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hay 
Moulton. The lady, I think, you have 
already met." 

At the sight of these new-comers our 
client had sprung from his seat, and stood 
very erect, with his eyes cast down and his 
hand thrust into the breast of his frock coat, 
a picture of offended dignity. The lady had 
taken a quick step forward and had held 
out her hand to him, but he still refused 




to raise his eyes. It was as well for his 
resolution, perhaps, for her pleading face 
was one which it was hard to resist. 

*' You're angry, Robert," said she. "Well, 
I guess you have every cause to be." 

" Pray make no apology to me," said 
Lord St. Simon, bitterly. 

" Oh yes, I know that I treated you real 
bad, and that I should have spoken to you 
before I went ; but I was kind of rattled, 
and from the time when I saw Frank 
here again, I just didn't know what I was 
doing or saying. I only wonder I didn't 
fall down and do a faint right there before 
the altar." 

" Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like 
my friend and me to leave the room while 
you explain this matter ? " 

" If I may give an opinion," remarked 
the strange gentleman, " we've had just a 
little too much secrecy over this business 
already. For my part, I should like all 
Europe and America to hear the rights of 
it." He was a small, wiry, sunburned man, 
clean shaven, with a sharp face and alert 

" Then I'll tell our story right away," 
said the lady. " Frank here and I met 
in '84, in McQ aire's camp, near the 
Rockies, where Pa was working a claim. 
We were engaged to each other, Frank and 
I ; but then one day father struck a rich 
pocket, and made a pile, while poor Frank 
here had a claim that petered out and 
came to nothing. The richer Pa grew, the 
poorer was Frank ; so at last Pa wouldn't 
hear of our engagement lasting any longer, 
and he took me away to 'Frisco. Frank 
wouldn't throw up his hand, though ; so 
he followed me there, and he saw me with- 
out Pa knowing anything about it. It 
would only have made him mad to know, 
so we just fixed it all up for ourselves. 
Frank said that he would go and make his 
. pile, too, and never come back to claim me 
until he had as much as Pa. So then I 
■ promised to wait for him to the end of 
time, and pledged myself not to luarry any- 
one else while he lived. ' Why shouldn't 
we be married right away, then,' said he, 
' and then I will feel sure of you ; and I 
won't claim to be your husband until I 
come back.' Well, we talked it over, and 
4 he had fixed it all up so nicely, with a 
clergyman all ready in waiting, that we 
just did it right there ; and then Frank 
went off to seek his fortune, and I went 
back to Pa. 

" The next that I heard of Frank was that 

he was in Montana, and then he went pro- 
specting into Arizona, and then I heard of 
him from New Mexico. After that came a 
long newspaper story about how a miners' 
camp had been attacked by Apache Indians, 
and there was my Frank's name among the 
killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very 
sick for months after. Pa thought I had a 
decline, and took me to half the doctors in 
'Frisco. Not a word of news came for a 
year and more, so that I never doubted that 
Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. 
Simon came to 'Frisco, and we came to 
London, and a marriage was arranged, and 
Pa was very pleased, but I felt all the time 
that no man on this earth would ever take 
the place in my heart that had been given 
to my poor Frank. 

" Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, 
of course I'd have done my duty by him. 
We can't command our love, but we can 
our actions. I went to the altar with him 
with the intention that I would make him 
just as good a wife as it was in me to be. 
But you may imagine what I felt when, 
just as I came to the altar rails, I glanced 
back and saw Frank standing looking at 
me out of the first pew. I thought it was 
his ghost at first ; but, when I looked again, 
there he was still, with a kind of question 
in his eyes as if to ask me whether I were 
glad or sorry to see him. I wonder I 
didn't drop. I know that everything was 
turning round, and the words of the clergy- 
man were just like the buzz of a bee in my 
ear. I didn't know what to do. Should I 
stop the service and make a scene in the 
church ? I glanced at him again, and he 
seemed to know what I was thinking, for 
he raised his finger to his lips to tell me to 
to be still. Then I saw him scribble on a 
piece of paper, and I knew that he was 
writing me a note. As I passed his pew on 
the Avay out I dropped my bouquet over to 
him, and he slipped the note into my hand 
when he returned me the flowers. It was 
only a line asking me to join him when he 
made the sign to me to do so. Of course, 
I never doubted for a moment that my first 
duty now was to him, and I determined to 
do just whatever he might direct. 

" When I got back I told my maid, who 
had known him in California, and had 
always been his friend. I ordered her to 
say nothing, but to get a few things packed 
and my ulster ready. I know I ought to 
have spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was 
dreadful hard before his mother and all 
those great people. I just made up my 



mind to run away, and explain afterwards. 
1 hadn't been at the table ten minutes 
before I saw Frank out of the window at 
the other side of the road. He beckoned 
to me, and then began walking into the 
Park. I slipped out, put on my things, and 
followed him. Some woman came talking 



something or other about Lord St. Simon 
to me — seemed to me from the little I heard 
as if he had a little secret of his own before 
marriage also — but I managed to get away 
from her, and soon over took Frank. We 
got into a cab together, and away we drove 
to some lodgings he had taken in Gordon- 
square, and that was my true wedding after 
all those years of waiting. Frank had 
been a prisoner among the Apaches, had 
escaped, came on to 'Frisco, found that I 
had given him up for dead and had gone 
to England, followed me there, and had 
come upon me at last on the very morning 
of my second wedding." 

" I saw it in a paper," explained the 

American. '' It gave the name and the 
church, but not where the lady lived." 

" Then we had a talk as to what we 
should do, and Frank was all for openness, 
but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as 
if I would like to vanish away and never 
see any of them again, just sending a line to 
Pa, perhaps, to show him 
that I was alive. It was 
, awful to me to think of all 
those lords and ladies sitting 
round that breakfast table, 
and waiting for me to come 
back. So Frank took my 
wedding clothes and things, 
and made a bundle of them 
so that I should not be 
traced, and dropped them 
away somewhere where no 
one should find them. It is 
likely that we should have 
gone on to Paris to-morrow, 
only that this good gentle- 
man, Mr. Holmes, came 
round to us this evening, 
though how he found us is 
more than I can think, and 
he showed us very clearly 
and kindly that I was wrong 
and that Frank was right, 
and that we should put our- 
selves in the wrong if we 
were so secret. Then he 
offered to give us a chance 
of talking to Lord St. Simon 
alone, and so we came right 
away round to his rooms at 
once. Now, Robert, you 
have heard it all, and I am 
very sorry if I have given 
you pain, and I hope that 
you do not think very meanly 
of me." 
Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed 
his rigid attitude, but had listened with a 
frowning brow and a compressed lip to this 
long narrative. 

" Excuse me," he said, " but it is not my 
custom to discuss my most intimate per- 
sonal affairs in this public manner." 

" Then you won't forgive me? You won't 
shake hands before I go?" 

*' Oh, certainly, if it would give you 
any pleasure." He put out his hand and 
coldly grasped that which she extended to 

" I had hoped," suggested Holmes, "that 
you would have joined us in a friendly 



" I think that there you ask a httle too 
much," responded his lordship. " I may 
be forced to acquiesce in these recent deve- 
lopments, but I can hardly be expected to 
make merry over them. I think that, with 

obvious to me, the one that the lady had 
been quite willing to undergo the wedding 
ceremony, the other that she had repented 
of it within a few minutes of returning 
home. Obviously something had occurred 



your permission, I will now wish yovi all a 
very good night." He included us all in a 
sweeping bow, and stalked out of the room. 
*' Then I trust that you at least Avill 
honour me with your company," said 
Sherlock Holmes. " It is always a joy to 
me to meet an American, Mr. Moulton, 
for I am one of those who believe that the 
folly of a monarch and the blundering of a 
Minister in far gone years will not prevent 
our children from being some day citizens 
of the same world-wide country under a 
flag which shall be a quartering of the 
Union Jack with the Stars and Stripes." 

" The case has been an interesting one," 
remarked Holmes, when our visitors had 
left us, " because it serves to show very 
clearly how simple the explanation may be 
of an affair which at first sight seems to be 
almost inexplicable. Nothing could be 
more natural than the sequence of events 
as narrated by this lady, and nothing 
stranger than the result when viewed, for 
instance, by Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard. 

" You were not yourself at fault at all, 

" From the first, two facts were very 

during the morn- 
ing, then, to cause 
her to change her 
mind. What could that something be ? 
She could not have spoken to anyone 
when she was out, for she had been in 
the company of the bridegroom. Had 
she seen someone, then ? If she had, it 
must be someone from America, because she 
had spent so short a time in this country 
that she could hardly have allowed any- 
one to acquire so deep an influence over 
her that the mere sight of him would in- 
duce her to change her plans so completely. 
You see we have already arrived, by a pro- 
cess of exclusion, at the idea that she might 
have seen an American. Then who could 
this American be, and why should he pos- 
sess so much influence over her ? It might 
be a lover ; it might be a husband. Her 
young womanhood had, I knew, been spent 
in rough scenes, and under strange condi- 
tions. So far I had got before ever I heard 
Lord St. Simon's narrative. When he told 
us of a man in a pew, of the change in the 
bride's manner, of so transparent a device 
for obtaining a note as the dropping of a 
bouquet, of her resort to her confidential 



maid, and of her very significant allusion 
to claim-jumping, which in miners' parlance 
means taking possession of that which 
another person has a prior claim to, the 
whole situation became absolutely clear. 
She had gone off with a man, and the man 
was either a lover or was a previous hus- 
band, the chances being in favour of the 

" And how in the world did you find 
them ? " 

" It might have been difficult, but friend 
Lestrade held information in his hands the 
value of which he did not himself know. 
The initials were of course of the highest 
importance, but more valuable still was it 
to know that within a week he had settled 
his bill at one of the most select London 

" How did you deduce the select ? " 

" By the select prices. Eight shillings 
for a bed and eightpence for a glass of 
sherry, pointed to one of the most expen- 
sive hotels. There are not many in London 
which charge at that rate. In the second 
one which I visited in Northumberland- 
avenue, I learned by an inspection of the 
book that Francis H. Moulton, an Ameri- 
can gentleman, had left only the day before, 

and on looking over the entries against 
him, I came upon the very items which I 
had seen in the duplicate bill. His letters 
were to be forwarded to 226, Gordon-square, 
so thither I travelled, and being fortunate 
enough to find the loving couple at home, 
I ventured to give them some paternal 
advice, and to point out to them that it 
would be better in every way that they 
should make their position a little clearer, 
both to the general publ'c and to Lord St. 
Simon in particular. I invited them to 
meet him here, and as you see, I made him 
keep the appointment." 

" But with no very good result," I re- 
marked. " His conduct was certainly not 
very gracious." 

** Ah ! Watson," said Holmes, smiling, 
" perhaps you Avould not be very gracious 
either, if, after all the trouble of wooing 
and wedding, you found yourself deprived 
in an instant of wife and of fortune. I 
think that we may judge Lord St. Simon 
very mercifully, and thank our stars that 
we are never likely to find ourselves in the 
same position. Draw your chair up, and 
hand me my violin, for the only problem 
which we have still to solve is how to 
while away these bleak autumnal evenings." 

uf[f' By Sir John Lubbock, Bart., M.P. 


ICCORDING to the traditions 
of ancient times, running 
water was proof against all 
sorcery and witchcraft — 
" No spell could stay the living tide, 
Or charm the rushing stream."* 

There was much truth, as well as beauty, 
in this idea. Flowing waters have not only 
power to wash away material stains, and to 
cleanse the outward body, but they also 
clear away the cobwebs of the brain — the 
results of over incessant work — and restore 
us to health and strength. 

Snowfields and glaciers, mountain tor- 
rents, sparkling brooks, and stately rivers ; 
pools, and lakes ; and last, not least, the 
great ocean itself, all alike possess this 
magic power. 

"When I would beget content," says 
Izaak Walton, " and increase confidence in 
the power, and wisdom, and providence of 
Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by 
some gliding stream, and there contemplate 
the lilies that take no care, and those very 
many other little living creatures that are not 

* Leyden. 

only created, but fed (man knows not how) 
by the goodness of the God of nature, and 
therefore trust in Him ;" and in his quaint, 
old language he craves a special blessing on 
all those "that are true 'lovers of virtue, 
and dare trust in His providence, and be 
quiet and go a-angling." 

" Of all inorganic substances," says 
Ruskin, " acting in their own proper nature, 
and without assistance or combination, 
water is the most wonderful. If we think 
of it as the source of all the changefulness 
and beauty which we have seen in the 
clouds ; then as the instrument by which 
the earth we have contemplated was 
modelled into symmetry, and its crags 
chiselled into grace ; then as, in the form 
of snow, it robes the mountains it has made, 
with that transcendent light which we 
could not have conceived if we had not 
seen ; then as it exists in the foam of the 
torrent, in the iris which spans it, in the 
morning mist which rises from it, in the 
deep crystalline pools which mirror its 
hanging shore, in the broad lake and 
glancing river ; finally, in that which is to 
all human minds the best emblem of un- 



wearied, unconquerable power, the wild, 
various, fantastic, tameless unity of the 
sea ; what shall we compare to this mighty, 
this universal element for glory and for 
beauty ? or how shall we follow its eternal 
changefulness of feeling ? It is like trying 
to paint a soul." 

At the water's edge flowers are especially 
varied and luxuriant, so that the banks of 
a river are a long natural garden of tall 
and graceful grasses and sedges, the Flower- 
ing Rush, the Sweet Flag, the Bull Rush, 
Purple Loosestrife, Hemp Agrimony, For- 
get-me-not, and a hundred more ; backed 
by Willows, Al- 
ders, Poplars, and 
other trees. 

The animal 
world, if less con- 
spicuous to the 
eye, is quite as 
fascinating to the 
Here and there a 
speckled trout 
may be detected 
(rather by the 
shadow than the 
substance) sus- 
pended in the 
clear water, or 
darting across a 
shallow. If we 
are quiet we may 
see water-hens or 
wild ducks swim- 
ming among the 
lilies, a kingfisher 
sitting on a branch 
or flashing away 
like a gleam of 
light ; a solemn 
heron stands, 
maybe, at the 
water's edge, or 
slowly rises flap- 
ping his great 
wings ; water rats, neat and 
clean little creatures, very 
different from their coarse 
brown namesakes of the land, 
are abundant everywhere ; 
nor need we even yet quite 
despair of seeing the otter himself. 

Insects, of course, are gay, lively, and in- 
numerable ; but, after all, the richest fauna 
is that visible only with a microscope. 

" To gaze," says Dr. Hudson, " into that 
wonderful world which lies in a drop of 


water, crossed by some stems of green weed, 
to see transparent living mechanism at 
work, and to gain some idea of its modes 
of action, to watch a tiny speck that can 
sail through the prick of a needle's point, 
to see its crystal armour flashing with ever- 
varying tint, its head glorious with the halo 
of its quivering cilia ; to see it gliding 
through the emerald stems, hunting for its 
food, snatching at its prey, fleeing from its 
enemy, chasing its mate (the fiercest of our 
passions blazing in an invisible speck) ; to 
see it whirling in a mad dance, to the sound 
of its own music, the music of its happiness, 

the exquisite hap- 
piness of living — 
can anyone who 
has once enjoyed 
this sight ever 
turn from it to 
mere books and 
drawings without 
the sense that he 
has left all fairy- 
land behind 
him ? " * 

The study of 
natural history 
has indeed the 
special advantage 
of carrying us into 
the country and 
the open air. 

Lakes are even 
more restful than 
rivers or the sea. 
Rivers are always 
flowing, though 
it may be but 
slowly ; the sea 
may rest awhile, 
nowand then, but 
is generally full of 
action and ener- 
gy, while lakes 
seem to sleep and 
dream. Lakes in 
a beautiful country are like silver orna- 
ments on a lovely dress, like liquid gems 
in a beautiful setting, or bright eyes in a 
lovely face. Indeed, as we look down 
on a lake from some hill or cliff it almost 
looks solid, like some great blue crystal. 
It is interesting and delightful to trace a 
river from its source to the sea. 

"Beginning at the hill-top," saysGeikie, 
" we first meet with the spring, or ' well- 

* Dr. Hudson, Address to the Microscopical Soc, 1889. 



eye,' from which the river takes its rise. A 
patch of bright green, mottling the brown 
heathy slope, shows where the water comes 
to the surface, a treacherous covering of 
verdure often concealing a deep pool be- 
neath. From its source the 
rivulet trickles along the grass 
and heath, which it soon cuts 

down to 
a stony 
white by 

t h r o u g h , 
reaching the 
black, peaty 
layer below, 
and running 
in it for a 
short way as 
in a gutter. 
Excavating its 
channel in the 
peat, it comes 
the soil, often 
earth bleached 
the peat. Deepening and 
widening the channel as 
it gathers force with the 
increasing slope, the water 
digs the coating of drift 
or loose decomposed rock 
that covers the hillside. 
In favourable localities a 
narrow precipitous gully, 
twenty or thirty feet deep, 
may thus be scooped out 
in the course of a few 

If, however, we trace 
one of the Swiss rivers to 
its source, we shall often find that it begins 
in a snowfield, or neve, nestled in a shoulder 
of some great mountain. 

Below the neve lies a glacier — on, in, and 
under which the water runs in a thousand 
little streams, everttually emerging at the 
end, in some cases forming a beautiful blue 

cavern, though in others the end of the 
glacier is encumbered and concealed by 
earth and stones. 

The uppermost Alpine valleys are per- 
haps generally, though by no means always, 
a little desolate and 
severe. The sides are 
clothed with pasture, 
which is flowery indeed, 
though of course the 
flowers are not visible 
at a distance, inter- 
spersed with live rock 
and fallen masses, while 
along the bottom rushes 
a white torrent. The 
snowy mountains are 
generally more or less 
hidden by the shoulders 
of the hills. 

The valleys further down widen, and 
become more varied and picturesque. The 
snowy peaks and slopes are more often 
visible ; the " alps," or pastures to which 
the cows are taken in summer, are greener, 

and dotted with 
the huts or cha- 
lets of the cow- 
herds ; while the 
tinkling of the 
cowbells comes 
to one from time 
to time, softened 
by distance, and 
suggestive of 
mountain ram- 
bles. Below the 
alps there is 
generally a 
steeper part 
clothed with 
firs, or with 
larches and 
pines, some of 
which seem as if 
they were scal- 
ing the moun- 
tains in regi- 
ments, preceded 
by a number 
of skirmishers. 
Below the fir 
woods again are beeches, chestnuts, and 
other deciduous trees, while the central 
cultivated portion of the valley is partly 
arable, partly pasture ; the latter differing 
from our meadows in containing a large 
proportion of flowers. 

Apart from the action of running water, 




snow and frost are continually disintegrat- 
ing the rocks, and thus gradually lowering 
the higher peaks. At the base of almost any 
steep cliflF may be seen a slope of debris. 
This stands at a regular angle — the angle 
of repose — and, unless it is gradually re- 
moved by a stream at the base, gradually 

creeps up higher 
and higher, until "V" 

at last the cliff en- 
tirely disappears. 
Sometimes the 
two sides of the valley ap- 
proach so near that there is 
not even room for the river 
and the road ; in that case 
Nature claims the supre- 
macy, and the road has to 
be carried in a cutting, or 
perhaps in a tunnel through the rock. In 
other cases Nature is not at one with herself. 
In many places the debris from the rocks 
above would reach right across the valley 
and dam up the stream. Then arises a 
struggle between rock and river, but the 
river is always victorious in the end ; even 
if dammed back for a while, it concentrates 


its force, rises up the rampart of rock, 
rushes over triumphantly, resumes its 
original course, and gradually carries the 
enemy away. 

Sometimes two lateral valleys come down 
nearly opposite one another, so that the 
cones meet, as, for instance, some little way 
below Vernayaz, and indeed, in several 
other places in the Valais. In this case, 
or indeed by one, if it is sufficiently 
large, the valley may be dammed up, 
and a lake formed. 

Dams, indeed, may be due to other 
causes. In some cases valleys have 
been dammed by ice — for instance, in, 
the Vallee de Bagnes, in the year 1818 ; 
or by rock falls, as in the Valais, in 
the sixth century. 

Almost all river valleys contain, or 
have contained in their course, one or 
more lakes, and when a river falls into 
a lake, a cone, like those just described, 
is formed, and projects into the lake. 
Thus, on the Lake of Geneva, between 
Vevey and Villeneuve, are several such 
promontories, each marking the place 
where a stream falls into the lake. 

The Rhone itself has not only filled 
up what was once the upper end of the 
lake, but has built out a 
strip of land into the lake. 
That the lake formerly 
extended far up the Valais 
no one can doubt who looks 
at the flat ground about 
Villeneuve. It is clear that 
the valley must formerly 
have been much deeper, 
and that it has been filled 
up by material brought 
down by the Rhone, a 
process which is still con- 

At the other end of the 
lake the river rushes out 
fifteen feet deep of, " not 
flowing, but flying, water, 
not water neither — melted 
glacier matter one should 
call it ; the force of the ice 
with it, and the wreathing 
of the clouds, the gladness of the sky, and 
the countenance of time."* 

It would, however, be a great mistake to 
suppose that rivers always tend to excavate 
their valleys. This is only the case when 
the slope exceeds a certain angle. When 

* Ruskin. 



the fall is but slight, 
they tend, on the con- 
trary, to raise their 
beds by depositing 
sand a nd mud 
brought down from 
higher levels. Hence, 
in the lowest part of 

their course, many of the most celebrated 
rivers, the Nile, the Po, the Mississippi, 
the Thames, &c., run upon embankments, 
partly of their own creation. 

When not interfered with by man, rivers 
under such conditions sooner or later break 
through their banks, and, leaving their 
former bed, take a new course along the 
lowest part of their valley, which again 
they gradually raise above the rest. Hence, 
unless they are kept in their own channels 
by human agency, such rivers are continu- 
ally changing their course. 

Finally, when the river at length ap- 

to other rivers. This is due to the same 
cause, and resembles, except in size, the 
comparatively minute cones of mountain 

The estuary of the Thames is swept by 
the tides, and the deposits of the river 
carried away to sea as fast as they are 
brought down. At the mouths of the Po, 
on the contrary, the 
tide is very small ; 
at those of the Mis- 
sissippi it never sur- 
passes a yard, and 
even at the mouth 
of the Ganges it does 
not generally rise 
more than ten feet. 
In flat countries 
the habits of rivers 
are very different. 
For instance, in 
parts of Norfolk 
there are many small 
lakes or " broads " 
in a network of 
rivers — the Bure, the Yare, the Ant, the 
Waveney, &c., which do not rush on with 
the haste of many rivers or the stately 
flow of others, which steadily set them- 
selves to reach the sea, but rather seem 
like rivers wandering in the meadows on 
a holiday. They have often no natural 
banks, but are bounded by dense growths 
of tall grasses. Bulrushes, Reeds, and 
Sedges, interspersed with the spires of the 

proaches the sea, 

it in many cases 

spreads out in 

the form of a fan, 

forming a very 

flat cone or " delta," 

the Greek capital A, 

to that of the Nile, and afterwards extended 

as it is called from 
a name first applied 


purple Loosestrife, Willow Herb, Hemp 
Agrimony, and other flowers, while the fields 
are very low and protected by artificial 
dykes, so that the red cattle seem to be 
browsing below the level of the water ; and, 
as the rivers take most unexpected turns, 



the sailing boats often seem as if they were 
in the middle of the fields. 

At present these rivers are restrained in 
their courses by banks. When left free they 
are continually changing their beds ; and 
their courses, at first sight, seem to follow 
no rule, but — as it is termed from a cele- 
brated river of Asia Minor — they seem to 
" Meander " along without aim or object, 
though, in fact, they follow very definite 

For a considerable part of its course the 
curves of the Mississippi are so regular that 
they are said to have been used by the 
Indians as a measure of distance. 

If the country is flat, a river gradually 
raises the level on each side ; the water 
which overflows during floods, being re- 
tarded by trees, bushes, sedges, and a 
thousand other obstacles, gradually de- 
posits the solid matter which it contains, 
and, thus raising the surface, becomes 
at length suspended, as it were, above the 
general level. When this elevation has 
reached a certain point, the river, during 
some flood, overflows and cuts through its 
banks, and, deserting its old bed, takes a 
new course along the lowest accessible level. 
This, then, it gradually fills up, and so on, 
coming back from time to time if permitted, 
after a long cycle of years, to its first 

The most celebrated floods are those of 
the Nile. The river commences to rise to- 
wards the beginning of July ; from August 
to October it floods all the low lands, and 
early in November it sinks again. At its 
greatest height the volume of water some- 
times reaches twenty times that when it is 
lowest, and yet, perhaps, not a drop of rain 

may have fallen. Though we now know 
that this annual variation is due to the 
melting of the snow, and the fall of rain 
on the high lands of Central Africa, still, 
when we consider that the phenomenon has 
been repeated annually for thousands of 
years, it is impossible not to regard it with 
vvonder. In fact, Egypt itself may be 
said to be the bed of the Nile in flood 

Some rivers, on the other hand, offer no 
such periodical difference. . The lower 
Rhone, for instance, below the junction with 
the Saone, is nearly the same all through 
the year, and yet we know that the upper 
portion is greatly derived from the melting 
of the Swiss snows. In this case, however, 
while the Rhone itself is on this account 
highest in summer and lowest in winter, the 
Saone, on the contrary, is swollen by the 
winter's rain, and falls during the fine 
weather of summer. Hence the two just 
counterbalance one another. 

Periodical differences are, of course, com- 
paratively easy to deal with. It is very 
different with floods due to irregular rain- 
fall. Here, also, however, the mere quantity 
of rain is by no means the only matter to 
. be considered. For instance, a heavy rain 
in the watershed in the Seine, unless very 
prolonged, causes less difference in the flow 
of the river, say at Paris, than might at first 
have been expected, because the height of 
the flood in the nearer affluents has passed 
down the river before that from the more 
distant ones has arrived. The highest 
floods are when the rain in the districts 
drained by the various affluents happen to 
be so timed that the different floods coin- 
cide in their arrival at Paris. 


Two Marriage Eves. 

By Richard Dowling. 

HAVE often told you," said 
James Mayfield to me the 
evening before my marriage 
with his daughter Kate, 
"that I owed my prosperity 
— or more accurately, my 
escape from destruction — to an accident, a 
chance, a miracle. Stand up and look at that 
piece of paper let into the overm.antel. 
Have you ever observed it before ? " 

" Yes," I said, rising and examining a 
faded document under a glass panel in the 
oak. " I have now and then noticed it, 
but have never been able to make out what 
it is." 

" What do you take it for ? " 
" Well, it looks like half a sheet of busi- 
ness note-paper covered with indistinct 
figures that do not seem ordinary." 


"Yes," he said, gazing with half-closed 
eyes at the paper through the smoke of hi? 
cigar. " They are not ordinary, nor is their 

" It is not possible to make them out, 
they are so blurred and faint. Are they 
very old ? " 

" Twenty years. They are much faded 
since 1 first saw them," said he, crossing his 
legs. " Now you may as well know the 
history of that half-sheet of business paper, 
and what it has to do with me and your 
Kate's mother. Sit down and I will tell it 
to you." 

I dropped back into my chair. 
" Our Kate is nearly nineteen, as, no 
doubt, you are aware. It is the night 
before jour marriage. You, thank Heaven ! 
run no such risk as I ran the night before 
my marriage. There is no 
date on that blurred copy 
of figures, but if there were 
you would find it originated 
on the night before I was 
to be married, twenty years 
ago. You are short of thirty 
now, I was short of thirty 
then. You are now in what 
I should then have con- 
sidered affluent circum- 
stances. I am going to 
'give you to-morrow our 
only child, and a fourth 
share in the business of 
Strangway, Mayfield & Co., 
of which I am the sole 
surviving partner, and that 
fourth share ought to bring 
you a thousand to twelve 
hundred a year. The night 
that document over the 
chimney came into exist- 
ence I was accountant to 
Strangway & Co., at a 
salary of one hundred and 
fifty pounds per annum." 

My father-in-law paused, 
and knocked the ash off his 

"At that time," he went 



on, resuming his story, " the business of 
Strangway & Co. was in Bread-street. We 
had warehouses on the ground floor and in 
the cellars, the offices were on the first 
floor, and warehouses filled from over the 
first floor to the slates. 

" The offices closed at six ; but, as I was 
anxious to put everything in the finest order 
before starting on my honeymoon, I was not 
able to leave at that hour. In addition to 
the bookkeeping I did most of the routine 
correspondence, and I had some letters to 
write. When they were finished, I should 
lock up the place, put the keys in my 
pocket, leave them at Mr. Strangway's 
house on Clapham Common, and go on to 
my lodgings in Wandsworth, and from my 
lodgings to my sweetheart Mary's home, in 
Wandsworth too. 

" As I was working away, writing letters 
at the top of my speed, and quite alone in 
the office — in the whole house — Stephen 
Grainly, one of our travellers, rang the bell, 
and, much to my surprise and annoyance, 
when I opened the front door, walked up- 
stairs, following my lead through the un- 
lighted passages. I never cared for Stephen 
Grainly, no one in the 
office liked him except 
Mr. Strangway himself. 
Grainly was an excellent 
man at his work ; but, to 
my taste, too smooth and 
good — too sweet to be 

'"What, Mayfield,' he 
cried, ' working away still ! 
Why, when I saw the 
light, I made sure it must 
be Broadwood (our assist- 
ant accountant, who was 
to take my place while I 
was away), and, as I had 
a goodish bit of money, I 
thought I'd better bank 
here than in my own home 
in Hoxton ; I am not satis- 
fied it is safe to stow three 
hundred pounds in cash 
in my humble home.' 

" ' All right,' said I ; 
' but I wish you had come 
earlier. The safest place 
to bank money in is the 
Bank.' He did not know 
I was going to be married 
next day, and I was glad 
of it, for the man always 
made me feel vincorafort 

able, and I did not wish him to touch my 
little romance even with a word. 

" ' Be here at four o'clock ! ' he cried. 
* My dear fellow, I couldn't do it. How 
could I? Why, I didn't get to King's 
Cross until a quarter to six ! Here you 
are.' He produced his pocket-book. ' You 
needn't give me more than two minutes. 
Cheques, five hundred and seventy-four, 
eighteen six. Notes, two hundred and forty- 
five. Gold, forty-eight.' 

" As you may fancy, I was in a hurry 
to get rid of him. He seemed in no hurry 
to go. He sat down, pulled out his hand- 
kerchief, and began wiping his forehead, 
although it was October, and by no means 

" ' You will initial my book ? ' said he, 
and he handed me his order-book, pait of 
which was ruled in money-columns, where 
he had a list of the money he had collected. 
The whole was eight hundred and sixty-seven 
pounds, eighteen shillings and sixpence, and 
for this I signed. 

" ' Have you taken the numbers of the 
notes ? ' I asked. 

" ' No ' said he. 




" I made a list myself of the numbers on 
a sheet of paper, and pushed cheques, notes, 
and gold up to the flat, middle part of my 
desk. I did not want to take out any of 
the account-books that night, and when I 
had finished the letters and he was gone, I 
should put the money in the safe in the 
back room. The memorandum of the 
numbers I should leave with the keys at 
Clapham, and the whole transaction would 
be dealt with by my assistant, Broadwood, 
in the morning. 

" Making out the list had taken a little 
time, as the notes were all small and no 
two in a sequence ; they had been collected 
for minor accounts in the country. Twenty 
years ago banking facilities were not so 
great as now, and we got from country 
customers large numbers of notes which 
would in our day be considered worn-out 

" I put my list of notes on the desk be- 
side me, and went on with my 
letters, several of which were 
now ready for the copying- 
press. Copying is a mecliani- 
cal operation at which I could 
work easily while , , 

Grainly was there. 
I wished to good- 
ness he would go 
away. As I have 
said, no one in our 
place liked the man 
but the governor. 

*' That evening 
Grainly talked a 
lot about the busi- 
ness and the news 
of the day, and all 
sorts of things. I 
could not tell him 
to go away, for he 
could see T was not 
myself leaving yet, 
and copying the 
letters, putting 
them to dry, en- 
closing them in 
envelopes, and ad- 
dressing them was 
not occupation for 
which a man could 
reasonably claim 

" When my batch of letters were ready, 
seeing half an hour's work still before me, 
I held them out to him and said, * When 
you are going, I should be obliged if you 

would post these, as I am not nearly 
finished here yet.' 

" ' Certainly,' said he, taking the hint 
and rising. He caught the letters in his hand 
and for a moment stared at me in a peculiar 
way. I thought he was going to resent 
physically my hint that he should take 
himself off. If he had I should have fared 
badly, no doubt, for he was a much bigger 
and more powerful man than I. He did 
not, however, attempt violence. He shifted 
his eyes from me and turned them slowly 
round the room, on the desk, and towards 
the door. 

" ' Anyone in the place who could show 
me out ? All the gas is turned off below, 
and I have never gone down in the dark- 
ness,' said he, moving away. 

" ' There's no one but ourselves here. 
I'll show you the way,' I said with alacrity, 
delighted to get rid of him. 

" I had led him through the long, dark 
corridor and half 
down the stairs, 
when he suddenly 
cried out, ' My 
stick ! I left my 
stick above. I 
won't be a minute, 
Mayfield. Just 
wait here for me ! ' 
" He ran up- 
stairs to fetch his 
stick, and was back 
with me in the 
darkness, in a few 

'"I found it all 
right,' said he ; 'it 
was just at the 
door. I got it 
without going in 
at all.' 

"I struck a 
match to light 
him, and presently 
he was out on the 
asphalt of Bread - 
street, walking 
rapidly towards 

"When I got 

back to the count- 

ing-house the 

cheques were on 

the flat top of the desk. The gold and 

notes were gone ! 

" I had taken the numbers of the notes 
on a sheet of paper, and left the list on the 




sloping part of my desk to dry, before 
putting it into my pocket. 

" The paper on which I had taken the 
numbers of the notes was gone also ! " 

As my father-in-law spoke, I rose to my 
feet and tapped the glass over the docu- 
ment let into the oak above the fireplace, 
saying, " And this is the paper with the 
numbers of the stolen notes on it." 

" And that is not the paper with the 
number of the stolen notes on it," said 
James May field. 

" From the moment I left the counting- 
house to show Grainly out that night, 
twenty years ago, no one has ever seen the 
list I made of the notes. Grainly must 
have destroyed it the moment he was out 
of Bread-street." 

My father-in-law finished his glass of 
port and resumed his story : — 

" Here was I, on the eve of my marriage, 
simply ruined. 

" Grainly had my receipt for the two 
hundred and ninety-three pounds cash, 
and he had the two hundred and- rinetv 
three pounds cash also, and Grainly 
was a thief who enjoyed the favour 
of his employer, while I was in no 
particular favour with the firm. I 
believe up to that time I was sup- 
posed to be honest. 

"The forty-eight pounds in gold 
was, of course, gone as much as 
if it had been dropped into the 
crater of a burning mountain ; and 
as the numbers of the notes could 
no longer be produced, and they 
had not come direct from a bank, 
but had been picked up here and 
there in the country, the two hun- 
dred and forty-five pounds were 
gone as though they had been 
blown overboard in the Atlantic 

" It was plain there would be no 
use in following Grainly, even if I 
knew the way he had gone when 
he gained Cheapside. It was plain 
no marriage could take place to- 
morrow morning. It was plain 
my course was to go without the 
loss of a moment to Mr. Strang- 
way and tell him what had hap- 
pened. Whether he would believe 
me or not, who could say ? Not 
I, any way. He might reasonably 
order me into custody. Very well, 
if he drd I must not grumble or 

feel aggrieved. Our wedding was fixed for 
eleven o'clock next morning. By eleven 
to-morrow I might be in jail, charged with 
stealing the money or being an accomplice 
in the robbery. 

" I locked the office, telegraphed to Mary 
that I had been unexpectedly delayed, 
jumped into a hansom, and drove to Strang- 
way's house in Clapham. 

" I told the servant to take in word that 
I wished to see Mr. Strangway most par- 
ticularly. I suppose she had heard about 
my wedding ; anyway she smiled very 
knowingly, and said : * I hope you'll have 
fine weather and good luck on your holiday, 
Mr. Mayfield, though it is rather late in 
the year to expect fine weather. Gracious, 
Mr. Mayfield, are you ill ? ' she cried at the 
end. I daresay my face told tales. 

" * Not ill,' I said, ' but very anxious to 
see Mr. Strangway at once, if you please.' 

" She showed me into the library, hurried 



E E 



off, and in a few seconds Mr. Strangway 
entered smiling. He, no doubt, thought 
my anxiety to see him was connected with 
my marriage. 

" When he heard my story he was grave 
enough. ' Two hundred and ninety-three 
gone ? ' said he, frowning. 

*' 'Gone,' said I. 

" ' And the numbers of the notes gone 
with the money ? ' said he, looking me full 
in the face, with a heavier frown. 

*' ' Not a trace left of the paper on which 
I took the numbers.' 

" ' Are you sure no one but Grainly could 
have entered the counting-house ? ' 

" ' Perfectly sure. All the doors com- 
municating with other parts of the house 
were shut — had been locked for the night. 
I had not been outside the counting-house 
since luncheon.' 

" For a few moments he reflected. ' The 
awkward part of it, Mayfield,' said he, ' is 
that you are to be married to-morrow. Of 
course, your marriage must go on. But I'll 
tell you what I think would be best for you. 
Suppose you attend the office as usual to- 
morrow morning : you could leave for a 
couple of hours later, get the ceremony over, 
and come back.' 

" ' Oh I ' I said, ' with this hanging over 
me ? I half expected to be locked up to- 
night. But I could not get married until 
the money is found, Mr. Strangway.' 

" ' Found ! Found ! The money can 
never be found. Why, we have nothing to 
go on ! Anyway, I shall not take steps 
to-night. Perhaps it would be best to post- 
pone your marriage. Yes, it would not do 
to marry under the circumstances. I am 
very sorry for you. But all that can be 
done in the interests oi justice must be 
done. Keep the keys, and be in Bread- 
street at the ordinary time in the morning.' " 

My father-in-law paused here. His cigar 
was smoked out, but he had not finished his 
story. He did not offer to move, and I sat 
still. After a few moments he went on : — 

" 1 will be merciful to you, and tell you 
nothing of the scene at my wife's place 
when I called later. Her father and mother 
were then living. I told my story to all 
three as I have told it to you, and all 
agreed the best thing was to postpone the 
marriage for a month. 

"Well, I'm not getting on as fast as I 
promised, but I shall not keep you much 

" When I reached the office in the morn- 
ing I had another good look round, but 
nothing whatever was to be discovered. I 
turned the whole place inside out. Nothing, 
absolutely nothing connected with the case 
turned up until, to my astonishment, 
Stephen Grainly walked into the office. 
Until his appearance I had, in a dim way, 
made up my mind that all would be cleared 
up, and my innocence established by his 
absconding. His arrival showed that he 
meant to brazen the thing out with me, 
and I felt from that moment helpless and 

" ' Grainly,' said I, as soon as I could 
talk, ' when you came back for your stick 
last night, did you notice the money you 
gave me on the desk where I put it ? ' 

" ' No, my dear Mayfield. I did not 
cross the threshold of this room.' 

" ' You did not see or touch the money 
or the piece of paper on which I had taken 
down the numbers of the notes ? ' 

'* ' No, certainly not. I could not see 
your desk from the door, and I was not 
further than the door. You do not seem 
well. I sincerely hope there is nothing the 
matter ? ' 

" ' The cash you brought in last night — 
the two hundred and ninety-three pounds 
- — has been stolen, that's all,' said I. 

" ' Stolen ! ' he cried, falling back. ' You 
don't mean to say that ! ' 

'' ' Ay, and stolen within an hoijr — 
within half an hour — of our being "here 
together last ni^ht.' 

'' ' I cannot — I will not — believe such a 
horrible thing. Stolen ! And in the very 
office, too ! ' 

" I never saw better acting in all my life 
than his indignation and horror and aston- 
ishment. I could hardly believe my eyes 
and ears. I had spent a sleepless night, 
and was half dazed and wholly stupid and 
in despair. For a while I felt that, after 
all, he might be innocent, and that I, in a 
moment of excitement and haste, had 
placed the money and the memorafidum 
in some place of security which I could not 
now recall. 

" Mr. Strangway, on reaching the office 
half an hour earlier than his usual time, 
gave orders for another search. It was 
quite unavailing. No tale or tidings of 
the cash came that day. 

" No secret was made of the affair in the 
office, and as the hours went on I became 
confident that in Mr. Strangway 's eyes I 
was the criminal. I don't know how it 



happened, but I did not feel this much. I 
did not feel anything much. I was in a 
dream— a stupor. 

" Late in the afternoon Mr. Strangway 
called me into his office, and told me that, 
considering everything, he did not intend 
placing the affair in the hands of the police 
that day, but that if to-morrow's sun went 
down upon matters as they now stood, he 
should be obliged to take action. ' The 
loss of the money I could bear,' said he, 
' but the ingratitude I will not stand.' 

"This was as good as accusing me of the 
robbery. Again I wonder that I was not 
more put out, but I felt little or nothing 
beyond helpless and numbed. 

" Before I left Bread-street that evening 
Grainly sent me a note begging me, for 
my own sake, not to think of bolting ! 
' Bolting,' said he, ' in a case of this kind 
would be taken as an admission of the very 

" Even this daring impudence did not 
rouse me, did not waken me ; through the 

whole terrible affair I do not think I was 
ever as much excited as I am now. 

" Next day Mr. Strangway said not a 
syllable about employing the police, or 
indeed about the affair at all, nor did he, 
as far as I knew, take steps in the matter. 
On the day following he made an astonish- 
ing announcement. He called Grainly and 
me into his private office, and said — 

" ' The present is the first time in the 
history of our firm that anything of this 
kind has occurred — that we have been 
robbed from the inside. I have made up 
my mind not to do anything about it just 
now. I keep an open mind. Some day 
we may find an easy explanation of the 
mystery, or it may never be cleared up. 
I accuse no one. I will say no more of the 
affair until I can either put my hand on the 
man who did it, or tell you both face to 
face, as you are now, that I have discharged 
from my mind for ever the notion that any 
man who takes my money as a servant took 
it also as a thief.' 




"A fortnight after the loss of thenioney, 
a telegram came for Mr. Strangway. It 
was sent into his private office. Presently 
he opened his door and beckoned me to 
go in, and when I had entered he motioned 
me to a chair. 

" 'Mr. Mayfield,' said he, 'I wish at the 
earliest moment to relieve you of what must 
have been a terrible anxiety. The thief 
has been found, and is now in custody!' 
Mr. Strangway waved the telegram. ' I 
have just got the message saying Stephen 
Grainly, with the bulk of the notes on his 
person, is in the hands of the police. He 
was about leaving this country — for Spain, 
it is supposed. He stole the money a fort- 
night ago, and stole the list you had made 
of the numbers of the notes. Knowing 
the way in which the notes had come into 
his own hands in the country, he felt con- 
fident they could not be traced from their 
source to him, and of course they could 
not be traced from him to the Bank of 
England, as the list of the numbers was 
destroyed by him.' 

" ' Then, how in the world, sir, were\hGy 
traced ? ' said I. 

"Mr. Strangway raised the blotting-pad 
and took from under it a piece of paper, the 
back of a letter. 

*' ' The news of the robbery got about,' 
said he, ' and of course our customers were 
interested in it, Mr. Young, of Horsham, 
among the rest. Mr. Young, of Horsham, 
was one of the people you wrote to that 
evening, the evening of the robbery, and 
you sent him more than you intended.' 

" ' Not the missing sheet with numbers ? 
I know I couldn't have done that, for I saw 
the memorandum on the slope of my desk 
after closing his letter and handing it with 
the others to Grainly.' 

" ' No, but you put the memorandum on 
the slope of your desk with the ink side up, 
and you copied Mr. Young's letter in the 
copying press and while it was damp put it 
down on the list of the notes in unblotted 
copying ink, and the numbers of the notes 
were faintly but clearly copied, reversed of 
course, on the fly-leaf of Young's letter, and 



Mr. Young sent the copy back to me 
privately ! Look.' 

" Mr. Strangway handed me the fly-leaf 
of Young's letter, and there were the 
numbers of the notes, dim to be sure, but 
not quite as dim there as they are now 
under the glass let into the oak of the over- 
mantel. Grainly had put a few of the notes 
in circulation, and they had been traced 
back to him. 

" ' He stole the money, Mayfield,' said 
Mr. Strangway to me, ' and he tried to ruin 
you, or anyway he wanted to saddle you 

with the theft, and for a while I more than 
suspected you. But all is clear at last, and 
I'll pay you handsomely one day for sus- 
pecting you.' 

"And so he did," said my father in-law. 
" He lent me the money to buy a partner- 
ship in the firm, and I am the firm all to 
myself now — and shall be until the new 
partner comes in to-morrow." 

He rose and shook me by the hand and 
tapped me on the shoulder saying, " Your 
partner for life will be wondering what has 
kept you. Run away to Kate now, my boy." 


■ 'Hi 

The Marquis of Dufferin and Ava. 


'^HE most interesting items of 
information are apt to 
pall if subject to too 
frequent repeti- 
tion, and the feats 
of statesmanship, 
of diplomacy, and 
of oratory of 
the Marquis of 
Dufferin and Ava 
— who spends his 
life in adding 

YACHT " LADY HERMION'E." ^^^^ l^ttCrS tO thc 

'^ alphabet streaming behind him," as some- 
one writes in verse — are so well known 
that it is refreshing to turn to less broken 
ground, and mingle an account of the more 
serious portion of his life with that which 
deals in anecdote and incident chiefly, if 
not only. 

In a speech made on St. Andrew's Day, 
in Calcutta, two or three years ago. Lord 
Dufferin declared himself to be a Scotch- 
man, though, as he admitted, "greatly 
improved by three hundred years' residence 
in Ireland." Notwithstanding this assertion 
and the fact that he was born in Florence, 
we may still look on him as the most 
Irish of the Irish, a statement which the 
remark above quoted does not tend to dis- 

As a direct descendant of Sheridan, and 
the son of one of the most brilliant and 
gifted women of her day, it must always 
have been held probable that Lord Dufferin 
would make some mark in the world, but 
not many might have cared to hazard so 
bold a forecast as to say he would in turn 
become Governor -General of Canada and 
Viceroy of India, Ambassador to Paris, to 
St. Petersburg, to Rome, and to Constanti- 
nople, arbiter of the destinies of the fella- 
heen on the banks of the Nile, and of the 
Men of the Mountain in the province of 
Syria, as well as "Maid of all Work to 
Her Majesty's Cabinet ministers," as he 
wittily styled himself in Parliament when 
appointed Chancellor of the Duchy of 

By the unfortunate means of the early 
death of his father. Lord Dufferin began 
life very young ; he was only fourteen when 
he was called away from Eton to take 
possession of his estate. 

His mother, Helen, Lady Dufferin, Miss 
Sheridan by birth, a member of an ancient 
Celtic family in the county Cavan, was the 
grand-daughter of the great dramatist and 
statesman, and is still remembered through 
numerous beautiful and pathetic verses set 
to music by the hand of their talented com- 
poser, and sung by her with exquisite taste 



and feeling, which include the well-known 
ballads of ' ' The Irish E migrant, ' ' " Terence's 
Farewell," and "Katy's Letter." It is 
generally said that it was to this distin- 
guished woman, by whose friendship he was 
honoured, that the poet Moore addressed 
the following lines : — 

" Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks, 
But Love from the lip his true archery wings ; 
And she who but feathers the shaft when she speaks, 
At once sends it home to the heart when she 

Another very 
charming and 
gracefully satiri- 
cal production 
from the pen of 
Helen, Lady 
Dufferin, is en- 
titled, in playful 
parody of her 
son's Icelandic 
tour, " Lispings 
from Low Lati- 
tudes," and relates 
the adventures of 
an English lady 
in Egypt. The 
numerous illus- 
trations, which 
are very spirited 
and full of hu- 
mour, place the 
heroine in every 
situation that 
drollery and 
imagination can 
suggest, and are 
from the same 
gifted hand. We 
are able to give a 
portrait of Lady 
Dufferin taken in 
the latter part of 
her life. The remaining two of the brilliant 
trio of sisters, without mention of whom no 
published annals of Court and social life 
during the first half of this century seem 
complete, were the Duchess of Somerset, 
who was unanimously elected Queen of 
Beauty in the celebrated Eglinton Tourna- 
ment in 1839, and Mrs. Norton, a writer of 
romance eminent in her day, some of whose 
songs and verses are almost as popular now 
as during her lifetime, and whose story of 
" The Ladv of La Garaye," told in verse, 
has rarely found its equal in simple charm 
and pathos in any language. 

The present Marchioness of Dufferin, 

whose family is mentioned elsewhere, is 
known to all for the great work she 
undertook in India with a view to 
ameliorating the condition of the native ' 
women, and introducing female medical aid 
into the zenanas. Only those acquainted 
through personal experience with the 
ignorance of the most common laws of 
nature, and the apathy shown in the 
presence of the inost terrible and most 
protracted of sufferings, can have any idea 
of the condition of things in this respect 

in our Eastern 
empire before the 
noble - hearted 
Vicereine took 
the matter in 
hand. Of the 
tact and assiduity 
. with which she 
induced one great 
Indian prince 
after another to 
permit, to sym- 
pathise with, and 
to aid in her 
undertaking, till 
the whole vast 

Frma n] 


peninsula was 
working with her 
and for her, this 
is not the place 
to speak, more 
especially as an 
article on " Lady 
Dufferin and the 
Women of India " 
appeared in this 
magazine last 
November. Nor 
yet can more than 
one brief word be 
iDrawing Said of the gracc 
and dignity with 
which, since she took her place by his side 
as a bride of eighteen. Lady Dufferin has 
accompanied her husband from place to 
place, making his many difficult tasks light 
in a manner which only a woman can, and 
adding to his popularity by the exercise of 
her own vtnquestioned charms, which have 
secured for her the respect and admiration 
of all who have knoAvn her on both sides 
the world. 

Helen, Lady Dufferin, was her son's 
guardian until he came of age, but before 
that time he began to put his house in 
order by planting long avenues of trees in 
all directions round Clandeboye, his place 



in County Down, and by cutting two large 
lakes, now combined, in the grounds, thus 
providing much-needed employment for 
the labouring population oi the neighbour- 
hood at the time of the great famine, when 
general distress was almost as rife in the 
North as in the South of Ireland. One of 
these avenues terminates at Helen's Bay, a 
beautiful little spot well, known to sailors 
on the north coast, in whose proximity a 
pretty little bathing village has come into 
existence. Another of the long green alleys 
leads to Helen's Tower, built by Lord Duf- 
ferin in his mother's honour, and which 
is furnished as a residence, each story con- 
sisting of one minute room and its own 
portion of the spiral staircase, and it rises to 
such a height that anyone taking up their 
station by the flag-staff 
on the platform at the 
top has a view of the 

HF.LKn's tower, CI.ANDEnOYE. 

distant shores of Cantyre, Wigtonshire, 
and of the Isle of Man. 

In a little work published for private cir- 
culation, one notices with interest that the 
lady to whom, in 1850, was assigned the 
task of christening this romantic tower, 
was Mrs. Rowan-Hamilton, of Killyleagh 
Castle, the wife of Lord DuflFerin's nearest 
neighbour and closest friend, and whose 
daughter was, a dozen years later, to become 
the Countess of Dufiferin. 

Among our illustrations we give one of the 
monument which has been celebrated in the 
verse of some of the greatest writers of our 
day. A sonnet of Robert Browning's com- 
pares this " Love's rock-built tower " of the 
island in the north to that of the " Greek 
beauty of the Scaean Gate," while in the 

recent editions of Lord Tennyson's works 
are to be found other lines on it beginning — 

" Helen's tower, here I stand — 
Dominant o'er sea and land ; 
Son's love built me, and I hold 
Mother's love engraved in gold " . 

Space must also be made for a short ex- 
tract from the exquisite lines in which Lady 
Dufferin resigned her guardianship of her 
son, which are engraved on a marble slab 
fixed to the inner wall of the tower : — 

" At a most solemn pause we stand, 
From this day forth — for evermore, 
The weak, bui loving human hand, 

Must cease to guide thee as o( yore. 
Then as thro' life thy footsteps stray, 
And earthly beacons dimly shine, 
' Let there be light ' upon thy way, 
And holier guidance lar than mine ; 

' Let there be light ' in thy clear soul, 
When passion temf)ts or doubts assail ; 
I Wnen grief's dark teuipests o'er thee roll, 
' Let there be light ' 
thatshall not fail! 
. . . And pray, that 
she whose hand 
doth trace 
This heart warm 
prayer, when life 
is past. 
May see and know 
thy blessed face 
In God's own glori- 
ous light at last." 

Lord Dufferin 
inherited a love of 
the sea from his 
father, a captain 
in Her Majesty's 
Navy, and a few 
years later he 
struck the keel 
of his yacht, the 
Foam, against the 
walls of the towers which guard the invio- 
late sanctuary of the Virgin of the Ice- 
realm. The title of that most attractive 
tale of the sea is " Letters from High 
Latitudes," and the writer, while steering 
his own vessel through the thick, black 
night of the North, and wielding with hi.s 
own hand the iron bars which pushed off 
the ice-blocks threatening to engulf her, 
found time to record the legends he heard 
on the way. He covered a distance of six 
thousand miles before he returned honfie, 
came within six hundred and thirty miles 
of the North Pole, and re-discovered the 
i-land of Jan Mayen, which had so long 
been lost behind its opaque barrier of fog. 
Not the least interesting part of this fasci- 
nating book are the illustrations from the 



writer's own hand. " Et ego in Arctis " has 
been written beneath one sketch, where we 
see a narrow lidless coffin in which rests 
the perfect skeleton of a man, some whaler 
who had perished here, according to the 
inscription marked on a rude wooden cross 
in the Dutch tongue, just a century before. 
Another shows us the snow-crested peaks 
of Jan Mayen, peeping strangely through 
one diminutive window cut in a dense wall 
of cloud, at the tiny Foam who has come so 
far to pay her morning call on this giant of 
the North, and who now stands curtseying 
gracefully outside the inhospitably-closed 
doors of her ill-mannered friend. A large 
painting in oils has been done from this 
little sketch, which, having crossed more 
southerly seas, in company with the por- 
traits of the more renowned of the Sheridan 
family, to adorn the walls of Lord Duflferin's 
then home, the Embassy of Constantinople, 
has now re urned to the walls of Clandeboye. 
where likewise is to be seen the figure-head 
of the gallant little Foam^ which has made 
her way so far afield. 

The rush and fall of salt water has ever 
since his first voyage had a charm for 
Lord DuflFerin, and he has rarely failed 
to snatch some hours from each of the 
busy years of his life for a tussle with 
the sea. 

A distinguished sea captain was recently 
heard to remark that His Excellency was 

'' again trying to make a hole in the list of 
Ambassadors by tempting Neptune with 
that water-sprite of his, which has the out- 
ward characteristics of a boat and the in- 
ward mechanism of a watch." The allusion 
was made to a graceful little fairy of diminu- 
tive dimensions, the Lady Hermione^ of 
which we give a representation in our 
initial letter, and which, succeeding The 
Woman in White ^ The Man in Blacky and 
a host of other craft owning Lord Dufferin 
as captain, is now disporting herself in the 
Bay of Naples, but which we may shortly 
expect to see nearer home, in one of those 
many harbours which own the sway of the 
lately-created Lord Warden of the Cinque 

Lord Dufferin is himself a good sports- 
man ; he has shot deer in Russia, bear in 
the Rocky Mountains, and tiger in India, 
besides clay-pigeons on the Bosphorus. At 
his present post in Rome, being Irish, he 
spends his hours of recreation in the hunt- 
ing field, where Jaracewski, *' The Hunting 
Colonel," who is not unknown in the 
English shires, points out his manner of 
taking his fences to the young Roman 
officers who are being trained in le sporty 
and bids them do likewise. Copies of a 
popular illustrated paper, representing His 
Excellency on horseback poised in the air 
above a five-barred gate, and instant^aneous 
photographs of him under similar condi- 

>^Sk „., ' Vf^* 

From an /netantaneoua Fhoioyrapii} 


[by E. Qhezzi, Rome. 



From a] 


of the British 
Embassy in Rome 
as it appears while 
in Lord Dufferin's 
hands. The 
Throne - room is 
so called from the 
Royal seat which 
is placed on a 
raised platform at 
the upper end. 
The arms of Great 
Britain and Ire- 
land are richly 
embroidered in 
gold on the can- 
opy above the 
throne, and above 
that again is the 
musicians' gal- 
lery, with a classic 
balustrade copied 
frorr^ a fine frag- 

[Photooraph. mcut of OUC dis- 

tions, were to be seen last season in every 
corner of the city on the Tiber. 

Among our illustrations is included one 

covered on the 
Palatine Hill. Spiral staircases passing 
upwards from either side of this dais, lead 
up to the gallery, whence one has a view 

J'ro.u a Photu. byl 


y. Mack, Volerame. 



of this magnificent room, down the side of 
which runs a long corridor, the latter being 
separated from the main body of the apart- 
ment by pillars and hanging draperies. The 
windows on this side overlook the gardens 
of the Embassy, which are bounded in one 
part by the Aurelian wall of Ancient Rome 
while on the other one surveys the Via 
Venti Settembre, and the gates by which, 
twenty years ago. Garibaldi entered Rome. 
Under the regime of former ambassadors, 
this saloon was used only as a ball-room, 
but Lord and Lady Dufferin furnished it 
completely, and use it as their favourite 

At the foot of the staircase, which is of 
white marble with balustrade of the same, 
and branches off to right and left, is another 
Oriental memento, the gilded figure of an 
Indian god ; and behind that is the fine 
entrance hall, its roof resting on columns of 
marble, and which, under Lprd Dufferin's 
directions, has been fitted up with divans 
and lounges in crimson cloth. 

The rest of the interior views which we 
have included in our series, are those of Lord 
Dufferin's estate in Ireland. The mansion 
of Clandeboye was erected in the reign of 
James I., but has been frequently altered 

Fr(ym, a Photo, by] 

sitting-room. On the walls of this and 
the adjoining apartments, are shields and 
weapons brought from India and Burmah, 
with a fine collection of the portraits of the 
great tributary princes of our Eastern 
Empire. On the tables lie the beautifully 
wrought cases of gold, silver, and ivory in 
which addresses were presented to the for- 
mer Viceroy ; among them is the casket of 
gold and gems that contained the docu- 
ments in which the freedom of the City of 
London was bestowed upon him on his 
return from his brilliant rule in the East. 

[t/. Mack, Coleraine. 

and enlarged since that time. From the 
terraces one has a fine view over the lake, 
which has already been mentioned, and of 
the park, which, among its other features, 
includes a well-grown pinetum. Within, 
the interesting appearance of the entrance- 
hall at once strikes one, as here are col- 
lected treasures from all parts of the world 
— stuffed seals and skins from the Arctic 
regions, great browm bears from the Rockies, 
and tiger-skins from the East. The native 
weapons of different savage tribes, including 
the tomahawks of the Red Indians, form 



i<rum a i'hotu. by] 


trophies on the walls. The big round eyes 
of grotesque idols from the same part of 
the world, stand against the walls, and about 
their feet are curling-stones from Canada ; 
guns from Burmah point their long tubes 
at the passer-by, and the rounded outlines 
of an elaborately decorated mummy-case 
from Egypt are seen beyond them. Shells 
brought over at a much later date from the 
fieldsof Tel-el-Khebir are grouped together 
in one corner, and near them is a large 
bronze bell in its stand, from still further 
East. Banners ' 

wave from the 
roof, hanging 
above the hand- 
some chimney- 
piece of carved 
oak, which, en- 
closing an open 
hearth, makes 
room for two large " 
crimson - cushion- 
ed settees beneath 
its wide - spread- 
ing canopy; 
while, looking 
down on the 
whole, is a fine 
portrait of Lord 
Dufferin in his 
peer's robes, by 
Ary Scheffer. 

The walls of From u rUoto. by] 

the staircase 
which one pass 
to the princif 
rooms, are line 
with picture^ 
many of then 
from Lord Dufl 
erin's own hand 
the pursuit of aij 
having alvvay 
been one of hi 
favourite occupai 
tions. At ti 
head is the all 
baster figure 
one of the earliej 
Egyptian king 
from a tomb dii 
covered by Lou 
Dufferin durin 
his exploratio^ 
in Egypt maij 
years ago. Th 
leads one on 
the picture g«^ 
lery, where are excellent copies of sou 
of the masterpieces of mediaeval art. Her 
also, is a bust of the Marquis when 
young man, by the sculptor Macdonald 
and in the neighbouring room are copid 
of the portraits of the female members ( 
the brilliant Sheridan family, among whol 
beauty and wit have been said to be her 
ditary. Another staircase leads from tli 
room, and at the point where its 1)alustradi 
terminate, the tusks of narwhals, broug| 
by Lord Dufferin from the North, rise big '^ 

IJ. Mack, Coleraine 


their counter- 
parts being also 
seen in other 
parts of the 

In i860 Lord 
Duffer in went as 
British Commis- 
sioner to Syria, 
■ to regulate the 
home policy of 
the Lebanon 
district, then a 
scene of perpe- 
tual turmoil and 
a very mael- 
strom of blood- 
feud, but which 
has since become 
the most peace- 
ful and prosper- 
ous portion of 
the Turkish 
Empire. On 
his return, he 
gave a most in- 
teresting lecture, entitled " Notes on Ancient 
Syria," at the Young Men's Christian 
Association in Dublin. The address has 
since been published, and in it the following 
passage occurs : — " The first visit a man 
pays to Egypt, Palestine, and Syria, pro- 
duces a greater- revolution in his ideas, a 
larger expansion of thought, a warmer 

From a Photo hi/l 


[./ Mack, C'oleraine 


stimulus to his imagination, than any other 
process his mind can undergo. . . . Along 
the path leading from the village of Nain," 
Lord Dufferin went on, " little effort is 
required to picture to one's self the memo- 
rable procession that once left its streets — 
the veiled and weeping mother, the friends 
and neighbours with their sad burden, and 

above all, that 
beloved and aw- 
ful Presence 
Whose memory 
is associated 
with every step 
we take among 
the hills of His 
earthly home." 

In 1872 Lord 
Dufferin was 
sent as Gover- 
nor-General of 
Canada, when 
the tact and 
personal influ- 
ence exercised 
during his tours 
through the vast 
provinces of the • 
brought about 
the pacification 
of British 
Columbia, then 

Mack, Coleraine. 




cated such an intimacy with its 
pohtics that he might have been 
mistaken for an American, es- 
pecially as there was very little 
of the Englishman in his appear- 
ance. He had a face more Celtic 
than Saxon — a fine, intellectual 
forehead, a light, soft eye — in all, 
a face of delicate beauty, but at 
the same time vigorous in ex- 
pression. I was much delighted 
with my companion's ideas of 
literature, art, and politics ; while 
his charming voice and his beam- 
ing expression convinced me that 
I was in the presence of no 
ordinary man. By the time we 
reached Regent's - circus, cigars 
were ended ; my new acquaint- 
ance alighted and disappeared 
among the millions of London, 
with a fair prospect of remain- 
ing with me for the time to 


From a Photo, by W. Notr.ian, Montreal 

clamouring for separation from 
the Dominion. 

We find an excellent pen-por- 
trait in a letter from the well- 
known American writer, Mr. 
Moncure Conway, at the time 
of Lord Dufferin's appointment 
to our American colonies. He 
met the future Go\ernor-General 
on the top of an omnibus run- 
ning from Richmond Hill to 
Piccadilly, both, as Mr. Moncure 
Conway explains, having ascended 
to that eminence in order that 
they might enjoy a balmy April 
morning, and each, it is necessary 
to add, ignoring the name of his 

" By my side," the letter says, 
" there sat a middle-sized man, 
with a very intelligent counten- 
ance. We had a good deal of 
conversation. He was particularly 

interested ni ir\.meriCa, and mdl- From a Photo, by] lokddufferin — viceroy of india. IBouratit&hephtrUiHuinua: 



b'rom, a\ 


come, only as a pleasant omnibus-top 

" But it was not to be so. A few even- 
ings afterwards, I happened to be in the 
strangers' section of the House of Lords. 
My eyes were wandering about from face to 
face, lingering her:; and there upon 
one which seemed like an historical 
figure - head of .^ ancient historic 
England. But ^ voice struck me 
as one I had heard before. I could 
not be mistaken in that low clear 
tone. ... It was my friend of the 
omnibus-top. Dry as the theme 
was — I have forgotten it — the 
speaker had invested it with 
interest. He had looked deeper 
into it than others, knew the point 
on which the question turned, and 
in a few simple words made the 
statement to which nothing could 
be added. Since then it has been 
my privilege to meet Lord Dufferin 
in society, to listen to him, to know 
something of his life, and my first 
impression has been more than 
confirmed. I am quite sure there 
is no one among the Peers of 
England who surpasses him in all 
that goes to make the gentleman, 
the true-hearted man, and the re- 
fined scholar. . . . Many most in- 
fluential men at once named him 
as the right man to succeed Lord 
Mayo in India. There was, indeed, 

a slight dis- 
appointment in 
some quarters, 
that Lord North- 
brook should 
have been pre- 
ferred for the 
post in question. 
But Canada gains 
a great deal by it. 
England could 
send her no bet- 
ter man." 

In 1879, at the 
moment when 
diplomatic rela- 
tions between 
England and 
Russia were 
strained almost 
to snapping 
point, Lord Duff- 
erin was appoint- 
ed Ambassador 
to St. Petersburg. The threatened outbreak 
of hostilities averted, he was transferred to 
Constantinople. Of his sojourn on the 
Bosphdrus and on the Nile mention has 
already been made. 

In 1884 he proceeded as Viceroy to India, 





From a\ 

Starting on a tigek hunt. 

the conquest of Upper Burmah, which 
country he visited at the close of the war, 
and whence he derives his second title, being 
the leading event of his four years' brilliant 
rule in the East. 

We give various illustrations of His Ex- 
cellency's progress through the newly- 
conquered province. In magnificence and 
wealth of resource this journey can only 
be likened to the State processions of the 
ancient Byzantine Empire. As the Ch've^ 
which had conveyed the Viceroy and his 

staff from Diamond 
Harbour, Calcutta, 
steamed into that of 
Rangoon, a salute of 
thirty-one guns was 
fired, while the British 
men-of-war, the Bac- 
chante, the Woodlark, 
the Turquoise, and 
the Sphynx, manned 
their yards, and salut- 
ed in their turn. The 
viceregal party then 
proceeded to a large 
temporary building, 
richly decorated and 
gilded, and which had 
been copied from a 
Burmese pagoda, after 
which the State car- 
riage conveyed them 
to the palace. Later 
on, the State barge 
was placed in requisi- 
tion to convey the re- 
presentative of our 
Empress-Queen part 
of the way to his final 
destination, the city of Mandalay. 

In 1888 Lord Dufferin was appointed 
Ambassador to Rome, a post he has held 
till the present moment, and during his 
tenure of which he has, in conjunction 
with Sir Evelyn Baring, carried through 
the work of the delimitation of the sphere 
of British influence in Africa. 

Lord Dufferin has now entered a new 
sphere of action. On the' lamented death 
of Lord Lytton, her Majesty's Government 
appointed him as Ambassador to Paris. 


irJwtosrc. X 

A Hungarian Legend : 
A vStory for Children. 

REAT excite- 
ment prevailed 
in the ancient 
castle of Loe- 
wenstein. For 
the day had 
come upon which the lord of 
the castle must start for the seat of war. 
The time of which we are writing is that 
of the early Crusades, when Hungary was 
invaded and overrun by a powerful Tartar 
tribe, led by a chief named Cadan. In this 
emergency, the Hungarian King appealed 
for aid to his nobles and vassals, amongst 
whom one of the most loyal was Emmerick, 
of Loewenstein. Emmerick had armed his 
retainers with great celerity, and a certain 
exhilaration of spirit ; but now that the 
actual moment -of departure had arrived, 
the cloud of grief was upon his brow. For 
he dearly loved his wife, the noble Lady 
Agnes, and also his fair sons and daughters, 
and to part from them, never, perhaps, to 
see them again in this world, was a terrible 
trial. Lady Agnes shared in these gloomy 
forebodings, for she knew only too well 
the half-savage, barbarous character of her 
country's foes. 

" /will take care of him," said Andrew 
Budiak, seeking to comfort his lady. 

Andrew was the castellan of Loewenstein. 
Although past the prime of life, he was 
still as bold in the battlefield as he was 
true in the castle hall, and he insisted, 
despite all remonstrances, upon accompany- 
ing his master to j:he seat of war. 

At length Emmerick tore himself from 
his wife's embrace, and the little procession 
rode away. 

Few chieftains had armed with the 
promptitude of the lord of Loewenstein, 
and the Magyar force was a small and in- 
efficient one. The result was that when 
the Hungarians and Tartars joined in battle 
the former were completely overpowered 
and defeated by the latter. 

During that fierce and terrible battle, 
which caused the river of Lago to run red 
with blood, the knight Emmerick and his 
trusty servant fought and fell together. All 
night they lay upon the battlefield ; and 
there, at dawn of day, they were found by 
some of the Tartars. Both men, having 

F F 



partially recovered consciousness, and given 
unmistakable signs of life, were raised 
from the ground, borne to the Tartar camp, 
and became the property of the chief, Cadan. 

They were barely allowed a few days of 
rest, in which to recover from their wounds. 
Then, when their new master was assured 
there was no longer danger of their dying 
by the way, he ordered them to be chained 
together. With a score of others, also 
linked in pairs, and attached by the centre 
of their fetters to the stirrup of a Tartar 
horseman, who bore a lance in his hand, a 
bow at his saddle, and a quiver of arrows 
at his back, they were driven onward, with 
curses and rough blows, towards their 
captor's home. 

After weary months of agonising sus- 
pense, a report reached the Lady Agnes 

cell by one of the hired labourers employed 
in erecting additional sheds for the nume- 
rous and overcrowded captives ; at the 
sight, Budiak felt a thrill of hope and glad- 

The night wore on. The watch had been 
set. Each prisoner had answered to his 
name, called by the captain of the giiard, 
and the deep slumber of over- wrought 
strength had fallen upon the wretched 
band, ere Budiak ventured to reveal to the 
knight the secret of his newly acquired 
treasure. Each had the same thought. 
Chained together as they were, escape was 
impossible ; but, if with this axe they could 
sever their fetters, they would have a chance 
of regaining their freedom. With great 
caution, muffling the sound of the iron links 
with the folds of their coarse garments, the 

hH^'">^ ^' 


that her husband was dead. It is needless 
to say how great was her grief. Only her 
religion and her children afforded her any 

The report, however, was a false one ; 
Emmerick and Budiak were spending their 
days in toil, suffering, and tears. At last, 
bue night, a gleam of hope visited them. 
As they sank down side by side upon their 
bed of leaves, Budiak caught sight of an axe, 
which had been accidentally left in their 

two captives began their attempt. Alas ! 
all their efforts were in vain ; in spite of all 
that they could do, the ponderous chain re- 
mained intact. In despair, each turned 
aside to weep. 

" I am so grieved for you, my poor 
Budiak ! " said Emmerick. " But for your 
fidelity to me, you would be still free and 
happy. I can never forget that ! " 

** Never mind about me, my good lord," 
answered Budiak ; "I can well support my 



own misery, for I am alone in the world. 
With you it is otherwise, for you have 
your wife and children to think of. You, 
moreover, were born to greatness, and 
have lost your birthright. But," he added, 
as a thought struck him, " it must be 

" Alas ! there is no hope for either of 
us," murmured the knight, burying his face 
in his hands. 

He was aroused by the sound of a heavy 
blow. Not one which had fallen upon a 
hard and resisting substance ; it was a 
peculiar, smothered crash that, although he 
knew not then why, thrilled the very core 
of his heart. 

"What have you done, Budiak ? " he 
inquired, hurriedly. 

"what have you done, nUDIAK?" 

" My dear lord," gasped out his follower, 
" there was but the accursed Tartar chain 
between you and freedom, and we could not 
break it. It detains you here no longer. 

Go back to your wife, and be happy. Tell 

her " 

He paused as if in agony, and Emmerick 
bent over him to ascertain the cause. With 
a start of horror, he exclaimed : '' Tell me 
that I dream — I dare not — will not — believe 
that you have done this ! " 

" Calm yourself, my lord, and think of 
flight," replied the heroic vassal. As he 
spoke he raised himself by a violent effort, 
and wrenched away from the fetter with 
which it had been encircled the leg which 
he had sacrificed to his beloved master. 
"Let me fling off" this useless limb, which 
has never served me so well as it has done 
this day. And now, be wary, my lord, and 
you are free ; for our captors have trusted 
largely to this chain, and with silence and 
speed your success is almost certain." 

" Never ! " returned Emmerick, throwing 
his arms around the wounded man, "never 
will I leave you here alone, maimed for my 
sake ; to die, perhaps, without one friendly 
voice to murmur peace in your last mo- 
ments ! " 

"Must I then know," remonstrated 
Budiak, with great earnestness, "that I 
have done this thing in vain ? Will you 
not accept my poor service ? Will you 
double my sufferings by your participation 
in them ? If we are found here at dawn, 
we shall both be the victims of an act for 
which I alone am responsible. 
You cannot surely be so cruel ? 
Come, my dear, dear lord, rouse 
yourself, I implore you, and de- 
part. Then I shall be able to 
forget my physical sufferings in 
my prayers for your safety and 
success, as I follow you in thought 
upon your homeward path." 

" I will not leave you thus," 
persisted the knight. 

"Nay, then, have the truth," 
and once more the gallant cas- 
tellan raised himself upon his 
arm, and struggled against the 
faintness that was rapidly over- 
coming him. " Even now I feel 
that I am dying. My heart flut- 
ters for a ]noment like a newly 
caged bird, and then stands still ; 
and the life-blood is being drained 
from my veins. Farewell, my 
beloved master, farewell ! " 
Budiak's fast-failing strength scarcely 
sufficed for these last words. Utterly ex- 
hausted by the effort he had made, he fell 
back upon the earth cold, motionless, un- 



conscious — to all appearance, lifeless. 
Emmerick doubted not for a moment that 
the brave soul had fled. 

At first the knight could do nothing 
but weep over the body 
of his noble friend. But 
thoughts of home grew 
upon him. Budiak must 
not have died in vain. 
Perhaps his loving spirit 
was even now watching 
over his master, grieved 
and disappointed by his 
delay. Emmerick braced 
himself for action, and 
with but little difficulty 
effected his escape. But 
his homeward journey 
was a hard and toilsome 

It was the second an- 
niversary of the battle 
in which Emmerick was 
suppoesd to have fallen. 
After a solemn requiem 
in the chapel, the Lady 
Agnes, covered from 
head to foot in a long 
black veil, proceeded to 
the great gate of the 
castle, for the pious pur- 
pose of distributing alms 
to all such as should be 
there to receive them. 
Around her stood her 
children. Each recipient 
was expected to repay 
his benefactress by a 
prayer for her beloved 
dead. The distribution 
had begun, when her eldest son, Geysa, 
said, " Serve this good pilgrim soon, I pray 
you, mother, for he seems very faint and 
weary with toil and want. And he must 
be a good man ; for, see ! even amid his 
rags, he has preserved a picture of Our 
Lady, which he might have sold for food." 

The lady, thus urged, turned towards the 
mendicant indicated by her son, and at once 
recognised in the relic a gift of her own 
made long ago to her husband. For a 
moment she stood speechless, gazing upon 
that gaunt, squalid figure ; then, throwing 
back her veil, and displaying a countenance 
like that of one convulsed by a fearful 
dream, she gasped : " Speak ! who and 
whence are you ? " 

" Affnes ! " exclaimed a well-remembered 

voice, and the next instant the trembling 
woman was in her husband's arms. 

We must now return to Budiak. Con- 


trary to his expecta- 
tion, he did not die, 
but recovered from his 
faint. In the morning, 
his condition at once 
revealed to the Tartars 
what had taken place. 
Cadan at first was 
furious. " Thou shalt 
die the death of a dog, 
vile slave ! " cried he, 
"without help or pity." 
" I care not," was the 
calm reply ; " I have saved my master." 

" A fine master he ! He left thee to 
perish," sneered the Tartar chief. 

" He thought me dead," said Budiak. 
" I rejoice to think that he is now free, and 
will soon be in his own halls ! " 

" Only tell me that thou hast repented of 
the rash deed, and that, were it yet to do, 
thou wotddst refuse," urged the wondering 

" I ma}' not pass away with a lie upon 
my lips," replied the castellan. " With 
this faithful right arm I would joyfully lop 
off every other limb, could I by the sacrifice 
ensure my master's happiness. And now, 
let me die ; I have nothing more to live for. 
The only boon I would crave is that you 
would leave me in peace to pray for my 



chief and my country, while yet I have 
breath to do it.'' 

Cadan was conquered. He had never 
before known anything Hke this. With 
deep emotion, he said : " Christian, thou 
art stronger than I ! The sun of success 
ghtters to-day upon my arms, but its 
beam may glance off in some hour of peril, 
when such love as thine may be beyond 
all price. Strive against thy weakness, and 
live. Care and rest may yet restore thee ; 
and I swear 
that for the 
sake of the 
noble lesson 
thou hast 
taught my 
thou shalt 
no sooner be 
able to keep 
the saddle 
than I will 
give thee 
gold, and 
arms, and a 
steed worthy of 
a monarch, and 
send thee under 
a safe escort to 
thy own people. 
So shall the 

proud Hungarians learn that Cadan also 
can respect the virtue of fidelity.'' 

Overcome by surprise and gratitude, the 
ioyful Budiak endeavoured, maimed and 
suffering as he was, to cast himself at the 
feet of his generous captor ; but, as he ceased 
speaking, the Tartar left the cell. 

Hope is a potent physician. Combined 
with careful nursing, the prospect of home 
and freedom soon restored to the castellan 
some degree of strength. Then the Tar- 
tar chief fulfilled his promise to the 
letter, and the faithful Budiak, loaded 
with gifts, returned to his friends. As 
he felt himself pressed to the heart of 
his grateful master, who greeted him 
as " brother," as he beheld the Lady 
Agnes weeping over him, and re- 
ceived her children's warm kisses 
upon his cheek, he said to himself 
that here was full compensation 
for all his sufferings, and that his 
sacrifice was being amply repaid. 
And he was right. Legs, it is 
true, are very 
valuable ap- 
but love is 
the most pre- 
cious thing 
in the whole 

"christian, thou art stronger than I. 

The Queer Side of Things. 

INCP] poor Moozeby tried 
those experiments in preci- 
pitating trains and things, he 
has kept up his studies in 
Theosophy ; but the results 
have not been at all encou- 

We were all at Mrs. Moozeby's reception, 
and we all knew one another more or less, 
with the exception of one man who was a 
stranger to all of us. We could not help 
noticing him ; for, besides being new to us 
all, his appearance and manner were rathe-r 

" Who's that old boy ? " said Pinniger 
to Thripling. " I never saw such a queer 
fish in my life. He seems to move about 
so awkwardly, as if he hadn't the proper use 
of his limbs." 

" T fancy it's acute rheumatism, or St, 
Vitus's dance, or something of that sort,'' 
said Thripling. " I'v^e noticed it myself. 
He's a genial sort of old boy though, appa- 
rently ; patted me on the back just now, 
and said he hoped I was enjoying myself! 
I take it he must be one of Mrs. M.'s 
brothers — fancy she did tell me once, now 
I come to think of it, that she had a matter 
of a brother or two in Australia. He must 
be some relation, or he would hardly make 
himself quite so much at home, would 

"Tell you what,'' said Pinniger presently, 
" that old fellow is a regular study. The 
way he gets about is really lovely — like a 
crab on crutches. And his voice is so queer ; 
every now and then it breaks and becomes 
a squeak, and at other times he seems to be 
trying to imitate Moozeby : in fact, now I 
come to think of it, his accent is very much 
like Moozeby's. I have it — he's a relation 
of Moozeby's, not Mrs. M.'s ; there is a sort 
of family likeness all round. Never heard 
that Moozeby had a brother, but he may 
be a first cousin or something." 

At this moment Mrs. Moozeby came up 
and whispered to Pinniger, " Do you know 
who that gentleman is ? I thought he must 



be a friend of Mrs. Wimbledon's ; but she 
says she never saw him before in her Hfe. 
Who has brought him ? And I wonder 
why they didn't introduce him to me, or 
anything ? " 

Pinniger and ThripHng shook their heads 

" I don't at all like his manners ! " con- 
tinued Mrs. Moozeby. " He goes about as 
if my house belonged to him, and offers 
people wine and things ! Just now, I do 
believe, he went down into the cellar and 
fetched up more champagne ; and he ad- 
dresses me as ' My dear ' and ' My love ' ! 
T do wish my husband would come home ! 
Look ! look ! He has actually had the 
impertinence to go up and fetch baby out 
of bed ! I woji't have it ! It's too much ! 
I don't care who brought him, I shall go 
and ask him what he means by it all ! " 

" It's all right, my love," said the stranger, 
tossing the baby up. " I'm sure baby's had 
a good sleep, and he wants to see the com- 
pany. Don't you, Toddlums ? " 

" Actually knows baby's pet name ! " 
exclaimed Mrs. Moozeby. " I have not the 
pleasure of knowing who you ate, sir ; but 
I consider that you are taking very great 
liberties in my house, and I must ask you 
to behave yourself if you remain here. 
Pray, who brought you here ? " 

The stranger stared a little at this speech, 
and then broke into a laugh of great enjoy- 
ment, though still with something of 
puzzledom in it. 

" Kitchee ! 
k i tehee ! " he 
said between 
his chuckles. 
"Mummy's fun- 
ny, isn't she, 
Toddlums? Fun- 
ny, wunny, wee ! 
Fun-ny, wun-ny, 
widdle-de, wee ! " 
The infant 
seemed to enjoy 
the joke intense- 
ly, and laid a 
slobbery finger 
on the stranger's 
nose ; but Mrs. 
Moozeby indig- 
nantly snatched it away, and hurried with 
it upstairs, exclaiming at every step, " Of 
all the impertinence ! " " To think of it ! " 
" Well ! " 

" Very extraordinary ! " exclaimed the 
stranger. " What in the name of heaven 


can have put her out ? Never saw her in 
such a tantrum." And he rushed upstairs 
after her ; then there came a scream from 
above, and we hurried up, to find Mrs. M. at 
bay in a corner, with the baby in a safe 
position behind her, stamping her foot at 
the stranger and pouring forth volumes of 
wild indignation. 

The stranger stood in the middle of the 
room scratching his head in a perplexed 
way, and occasionally exclaiming " My 
love! " and "Tut, tut!" 

"in a safe position. 

" Gad ! " said Pinniger, '' mad I Better 
send for a policeman." 

"I do believe she is mad," said the 
stranger. " But I don't think a policeman 
would know what to do. Aren't burnt 
feathers, or smelling salts, or arnica, or 
something like that, good for this sort of 
thing ? " 

" Oh, why doesn't Mr. Moozeby come 
home ? " cried Mrs. M., beating an angry 
tattoo with her shoe. 

The stranger gazed at us and shook his 
head. " Mad ! " he murmured ; then he 
said, "My love, don't you know me ? " 

" No," cried Mrs. Moozeby, "I do not ; 
and what is more, whoever had the imper- 
tinence to bring you here shall never enter 
this house again ! " 

" I do hope she won't take to tearing baby 
limb from limb," said the stranger ner- 




vously ; " I think I had 
better try to get it away. 
If she doesn't know me — 
her husband — she'll be fan- 
cying baby is a rat, or a 
blackbeetle, or something ! 
Kitchee, kitchee. Hang it 
— you fellows don't seem to 
know me ! What's come 
to me ? I do believe there's 
a something about me that 
— which — that isn't " 

He rushed to the cheval 
glass, gazed at himself a 
moment, then sank on the 
floor with his hands clutch- 
ing at his hair. 

" I've muddled it 
somehow ! " he whis- 
pered to himself. 

"It's all right," said 
Pinniger, soothingly, 
advancing with a 
Japanese fan he had 
hastily snatched up, 
and waving it gently 
before the stranger, 
to amuse and quiet 
him. "There's a 
nice cab coming to 

fetch you, and a man with nice, bright 
buttons all down his coat. So nice ! Be 
here in a minute, if you sit nice and still." 

" Pinniger, my dear fellow, don't ! " said 
the stranger. " Can't you see I'm — no, I 
suppose you can't ; but I am — Moozeby. 
I've been precipitating myself, and some- 
how muddled it. You see, I was anxious to 
get home here quickly from the City so as 
to receive the people ; but 
I missed my train, so I found 
a nice quiet spot in the 
Temple Gardens and ele- 
mentalised myself, so that I 
might re-precipitate myself 
here at once ; but somehow 
(I fancy I was thinking of a 
business acquaintance whom 
I had just left at the bottom 
of Ludgate-hill) I muddled 
it, and mixed myself up 
somehow, and I seem to 
have come out something 
like him here and there. 
You see — yes — he has a 
little bit of hair right in 
the middle of his forehead, 
and here it is ; and this is 
his heavy moustache ; and 

his legs are much 
longer than mine, and 
I seem to have one of 
his and one of my 
own, and two different 
kinds of boots, too. 
Dear, dear ! But look 
here, this mole at the 
back of my neck, that 
js mine. Look, my 
love, see ? Mole ! It's 
all right. I must really be 
chiefly myself, speaking in 
a general way and on 
broad lines, while I have 
that mole. Where that 
mole is / am ; because 
they always used to dis- 
tinguish me, as a baby, 
from other babies of the 
same size, by means of that 
mole. Yes, here it is ; the large 
one, with the little tiny one by 
the side of it, for luck." 

Mrs. Moozeby at length per- 
suaded herself to approach him, 
and examine the mole ; then 
her harrowed feelings found 
relief in sobs. 

" I wish you had never seen 
those hateful Mahatma books, ' Hysteric 
Buddhism,' and the rest of them I " she 
said. " As if you had not quite enough 
irritating habits before, Robert ! And now 




there's always this precipitating business 
going on ; and I always told you it was 
bad for your health, especially your diges- 
tion, which was always delicate, besides 
being wicked and flying in the face of Pro- 
vidence ! And now just see what you've 
done — mixed yourself up like this so that 
nobody can recognise you ; and a nice job 
for Doctor Coddles to get you right again ! 
And then that hateful moustache — very 
nice to be set against one's meals by fes- 
toons of soup and mayonnaise hanging to 
it ! You'll have the kindness, at least; to 
shave that oif at once." 

" I — really, my dear, I hardly like to. The 
fact is, I don't feel as if it were altogether 
my own property. 
You see, if I returned 
the other parts to 
Mownde — that's that 
business acquaint- 
ance, my dear — 'with- 
out the moustache, he 
mightn't altogether 
like — but, then, after 
all, I suppose this one 
is only a duplicate of 
his, and he's all right 
and complete as it is, 
and knows nothing 
about it. Oh, dear, it 
IS puzzling ; I don't 
quite understand all 
the bearings of the 
th:,gyet " 

" No," said Mrs. 
Moozeby. " And it 

will come to having 
to keep an inventory 
of yourself, and go 
through it every 
morning to see if you 
are all there ; a nice 
waste of time, and 
pretty late it will 
make you for town ! 
Besides, the untidi- 
ness of leaving pieces 
of yourself all about 
in different places ! 
I'm sure George and 
Mary have quite 
enough work as it is, 
folding up your clothes that you throw all 
over the place ; and then what a nice 
example for baby to grow up with before 
its eyes ! How can you expect the ser- 
vants to be tidy, and put things away, 
with you for ever asking where your legs 



are, or whether anyone has seen your nose? 
I'm sure if these hateful Mahatmas had to 
manage a house themselves, they would 
have thought twice before inventing this 
detestable nonsense ! " 

Altogether that reception of Mrs. Mooze- 
by's was a failure, and we all left early ; for 
we could not feel that Moozeby, in his 
existing state, was a proper substitute fof 
himself ; and it was difficult to regard him 
as our host. It is true that the poor fellow 
did his very best to pull himself together 
and try to make us at home ; he came 
down and tried to get up some extempore 
tableaux vivants^ but we could perceive 
that he was tired and out of sorts— in fact, 
he experienced a great 
deal of pain in the leg 
which was not one of 
his own, and came to 
the conclusion that 
that business acquaint- 
ance of his must suffer 
badly from gout or 
rheumatism, and we 
thought it would be 
a relief to him if we 
all went away. 

Next day, being 
rather anxious about 
poor Moozeby, I called 
for Pinniger, and we 
went together to see 
how he was getting 
on. We found him 
at home as we had 
expected ; for, as he 
said, it would not be 
of much use to go to 
town, as neither the 
clerks nor anyone else 
would recognise him ; 
besides which, he had 
a morbid sensitiveness 
about venturing out 
and showing himself, 
being jerky and spas- 
modic in his move- 
ments in consequence 
of a difficulty in 
working the parts 
which were not his 
own, and which re- 
quired practice to get used to. 

He was very miserable, poor fellow ; 
among other things, he had developed a 
violent cold in his nose — or rather, in his 
business acquaintance's nose. He recol- 
lected having noticed Mownde standing in 

MY NOSE ? ' " 



a violent draught in town, and warning 
him against taking cold ; and evidently he 
had taken cold. Then there was another 
thing — Moozeby's right hand, which was 
Mownde's, would keep taking out his 
watch and holding it up to be looked at, 
which convinced Moozeby that Mownde 
had some important engagement that morn- 
ing ; and Moozeby's misery was increased 
by the uncertainty whether Mownde was 
really complete in himself, or whether he 
was waiting for the missing parts before he 
could keep his appointment. 

Poor Moozeby was fearfully perplexed 
how to act for the best. Several times he 
was tempted to elementalise himself, with 

a view to precipi- 
tating himself at 
Mownde's resi- 
dence : but he 
was so upset by 
the muddle he 
had already 
made, that all 
sorts of vague 
■^ held him back, 

"moozeby and his fox-terrier." 

one of them being that he might lose 
Mownde's pieces irrecoverably on the way, 
thus doing irreparable harm. 

The worst of it was, Moozeby's fox-terrier 
would spend his whole time in walking 
round and round Moozeby on the tips of 
his paws, and with his legs rigid like those 
of an automaton, and growling ; and the 
possibility of his deciding on a bite was 
increased by Mownde's intense aversion to 
dogs, which caused Moozeby's right hand 

(in the intervals of taking out the watch) 
to seize all sorts of objects with the purpose 
of flinging them at the dog. As this would 
be absolutely certain to precipitate the 
threatened attack, Moozeby was forced to 
keep incessantly on the watch for the 
vagaries of that hand, which would occa- 
sionally (being very quick) seize a lump of 
coal or something while Moozeby's eye 
was turned away, and all but succeed in 
hurling it. Then that hand of Mownde's 
had a nasty twitch in it — some sort of 
paralysis — and would, every now and then, 
pinch Moozeby's ear, or pull his whiskers, 
causing him to grunt Avith pain. At length 
he settled matters for the time by sitting 
on that hand ; and presently the dog went 
to sleep. 

Several weeks passed before poor 
Moozeby could pluck up courage to attempt 
to set things right by a further experiment 
in elementalising himself ; but, what with 
the pressure put upon him by Mrs. Mooze- 
by, who declared her determination to go 
and live Avith her mother if he intended to 
continue going about that guy, and the 
general unsatisfactory state of the case, he 
at length braced up his nerves to the 
attempt. That dog resented the operations 
from the commencement, and Pinniger 
had to hold him back ; and Mrs. Moozeby 
had insisted on having Dr. Coddles present 
in case of accidents. 

The poor fellow could not concentrate 
his mind on the operation, a most essential 
condition of success. His thoughts would 
wander to the objects he saw ; and at the 
first try he re-precipitated himself fairly 
all right, with the excep- 
tion of the right leg, 
which was the leg of a 
table — a facsimile of 
those supporting the 
dining table in front of 
him. Then, while he 
was trying to concen- 
trate his thoughts on 
that leg, the rest of him 
grew nebulous, and faded right away ; and 
we feared the worst. But his voice, ap- 
parently from the centre of the earth, 
murmured : "All right, you fellows, I'm 
all here in the form oif air ; only I wish 
you would put a newspaper or something 
in front of the fire to prevent some of me 
being drawn up the chimney by the 

We waited breathlessly for a quarter of 
an hour, then we heard Moozeby's voice 




saying : " I say, just get down that book, 
' Every Man his own Mahatma.' I think 
it's in that Uttle bookcase by the window. 
That's it. Now, just 
turn to page 392, 
where it tells you how 
to unravel your ele- 
ments when you've 
got 'em in a tangle. 

More suspense, and 
then a condensing 
nebula ; and finally 
the form of Moozeby 
sitting on the man- 
telpiece. It was 
Moozeby this time, 
but with one strange 
— very strange — pecu- 
liarity ; he had one 
black-and-tan ear like 
the terrier ! 

Mrs. Moozeby was dreadfully upset by 
that ear ; and poor M., with a sigh of 
despair, offered to try again, but his wife 
put her foot down this once and for all, and 
absolutely forbade any more of the non- 

" We shall have you turning out next," 
she said angrily, speaking of him as if he 
were a blancmange, " with the door-knob 
for a nose, or something of that sort, which 
would show more ! No, you must brush 
your hair down over that ear and make 
the best of it, and it serves you 
right ! " 

And we left poor Moozeby in a 
very despondent state, with his black- 
and-tan ear drooping, ruefully watch- 
ing Mrs. M., who was employed in 
burning his collection of Theosophical 
pamphlets on the fire, while the 
terrier, who had already detected 
that ear, sat with one bright eye 
threateningly fixed upon it, making 
up his mind. J. F. Sullivan. 

"a very despondent state. 






O railway officials it is a well- 
known fact that the engines 
of high speed expresses kill 
small and large heavy flying 
birds, such as partridges and 
grouse, in great quantities, 
sometimes carrying their bodies long dis- 
tances. A few months ago the writer was 
shown by a locomotive superintendent of 
one of the principal northern lines, a dead 
bird which, strange to say, though a very 
rapid flyer, had met its doom through the 
agency of the iron horse. This bird was a 
sparrow-hawk, and it is now stuffed and 
may be seen in the Carlton-road Board 
School Museum, Kentish Town. The driver 
of the train relates that he was travelling 
between sixty and seventy miles an hour 
near Melton, when, just on the point of 
entering a long tunnel, he observed, flutter- 
ing in front of the engine, some object which 

he at first mistook for a rag, but when, on 
leaving the tunnel, he went forward, he dis- 
covered, to his astonishment, that it was a 
sparrow-hawk which had become entangled 
between the hand-rail and smoke-box of the 
engine, and was held there firmly by the 
pressure of the wind. It was not quite dead 
when taken out of this curious death trap, 
though one eye had been destroyed. There 
is no doubt that it met its death accidentally, 
as a hawk can fly quicker than the fastest 
trains travel — so the drivers say, who often 
observe them flying low down in the hedge- 
row and keeping up with the train till some 
unwary small bird, frightened by the noise, 
flies out of the fence, when the hawk pounces 
on it and devours it. This instance of a 
hawk being killed by a train on the above- 
mentioned line is unique, and will most 
probably be new and interesting to our